


Neither Saint nor Sinner

by i_called_you_a_squirrel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual John Watson, Bullying, Character Study, Childhood Memories, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, One-Sided Relationship, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Angst, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Slow Burn, Teen John Watson, Teen Sherlock, Underage Drug Use, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, abuse tags are for moriarty and sherlock, they don't date but they have like a weird thing going on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 39,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26072779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_called_you_a_squirrel/pseuds/i_called_you_a_squirrel
Summary: "Nothing made me, John," he spat. "I made me."How?Sherlock's journey through relating to other people.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, perhaps some side molly hooper/irene adler
Comments: 24
Kudos: 60





	1. Alien

It was hard for Sherlock to empathize with people. No, actually that wasn’t the problem. Sherlock could empathize, he just couldn’t understand. 

Mycroft, who had been blessed with the gift of understanding, enjoyed teasing him endlessly about this small detail. He’d laughed at him, the first time he’d admitted he dreamed of becoming a detective (in front of the entire family, mind you), through his bedroom door.

“Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” he drawled in his most patronizing tone (was there any other?), “How could you ever solve a crime?”

The boy, only nine at the time, buried his face in his soft pillow and closed his eyes tightly, trying so, so hard to keep his tears at bay. He would never be able to erase the dismissive, pitying looks of his parents. And the mocking stare Mycroft put him through. 

“I _am_ smart!” He said into the duvet.

Mycroft used to respond to this claim with an eyeroll and a scoff, but since he’d turned sixteen, he’d been following the most boring rules of etiquette, and had been trying to rid himself of those sort of habit. Sherlock knew it only had to do with the internship he’d gotten at a government facility, even though his older brother had told their parents he was trying to “be his better self”, whatever that meant. 

“But, dear brother, you know nothing of humanity.”

Sherlock had stared at his wall and waited for Mycroft’s hefty steps to indicate he’d walked away. The thought of making a quip about Mycroft’s weight crossed his mind, but he didn’t know how that could relate to his brother’s last statement. So he didn’t.

He had always hated not knowing, not understanding. 

With Chemistry or Physics, however – both subjects in which Sherlock had already developed a respectable amount of knowledge by the age of ten –, the boy could always research the causes of his confusion in the school’s library or his mother’s own private collection. And so the problem would be solved. He would understand. He’d know.

With humanity, though, there was nothing he could do. He had tried reading books on psychology, and that had helped some, but apparently people did not like for someone to point out that they had a deep-rooted fear of intimacy because of the loss of one of their parents or that they were bound to end up unhappy because of their denial over their sexuality. 

That had been a strange dinner party with his mother’s colleagues. Afterward, she’d sat down next to him on his bed and scolded him, gently telling him that analyzing people was not a way to connect to them, while rubbing his back up and down soothingly. 

He’d cried angrily to her that night. She’d thought it was progress, that he was feeling sad he couldn’t connect with other people. He was scared, because he thought she was wrong. He was crying out of frustration, seeing a puzzle he could not solve. Many, many puzzles. 

Even so, he read a lot about psychology, but he’d given up on understanding people. It was useful for crime solving. As Mycroft had said, he needed to know about _emotions_ in order to understand crime – how people acted, their motives. His study in micro-expressions and body language helped as well. Actually, little else did on a day-to-day basis. 

But all those things came much after Mycroft’s words on that night. 

Maybe he had replayed them so many times in his mind because he knew they were true. It didn’t matter how much he read, how much he researched, he would never be able to truly understand people around him. 

He did feel separated from humanity at times. As if he were an alien. A pirate… no.

He couldn’t bear to connect his only source of happiness as a child to the names his peers called him. Alien, weirdo, freak. 

When Mycroft was still living at their parents’ house, he used to walk by Sherlock’s room every night after dinner. That was when the boy still ate every night, still cared for the proper rules of, well, existing as a part of society. 

He’d linger at the door, listening in for any sign that Sherlock was upset. Years later, Sherlock would miss his presence on those days more than he’d ever think possible. More than he’d ever tell Mycroft.

At the time he thought it was exactly like Mycroft owned a factory and was personally obligated to check on every part of the machines’ engineering so everything would work smoothly.

Many a night he’d hear a sniffle or the absence of breath for many minutes, which usually meant that Sherlock was waiting for him to leave and didn’t want to give himself away. Those days, he’d walk in, and he’d talk to Sherlock, even if the younger boy didn’t respond. 

On his first night back for the holidays after his first year at a private secondary school that was mere hours from their house, Mycroft came in. 

Sherlock had been a mess. He’d hidden his face from Mycroft, pretending to be arranging his microscope and the samples of soil he’d gathered from his boarding school’s grounds. They were slightly muddier than the regular UK soil, and Sherlock was very bored. Oh, and he’d seen strange mushrooms growing around the area. 

Mycroft had just sat atop the pastel yellow duvet on Sherlock’s bed which the younger brother had spent the year dreaming of. He traced the soft pillows with the tips of his fingers and didn’t say anything.

Sherlock turned around to face him. The tears escaped his eyes at a fast pace. 

“They were so _mean_ ,” he whispered hoarsely. “They hate me, Mycroft. Call me all sorts of … _things_ …and they say awful, awful things to me. I tried to be…” His voice grew really, really small. “ _Nice_ ,” he spat.

Mycroft pursed his lips and tilted his head. 

“They didn’t…weren’t they supposed to know how to be nice?” He looked at Mycroft inquisitively. “They didn’t even try…”

Mycroft stood up and laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Then, he grabbed the boy’s round with baby fat face roughly and stared into his blue semi-translucent eyes. 

“You are smart, Sherlock,” he said seriously, the first time he’d ever said it. “And people will not understand you because of it. They will not try to understand. They will resent you for being smarter than them and won’t hide it. It will make them mean.”

Sherlock’s face started to hurt from his brother’s grip. His eyes were still overflowing with tears. 

“…Why?” He asked brokenly. 

“It’s the way they work. You are smart, so they will be mean. But it’s okay, Sherlock. Being smart is an advantage, but caring for others…it is _not_.” He let go of Sherlock’s face, and the boy looked at the ground. 

He shielded himself with his arms. 

“Sherlock, you will always have the advantage…if you just stop caring.”

“I _don’t_ care…” 

Mycroft opened a small smile which indicated he didn’t believe him and took his time walking over to the door, twisting the door handle and walking through it. 

Sherlock fell to the floor as soon as he heard the door close. 

It was then that Sherlock named himself a sociopath. As everyone around him seemed so keen to name his abnormality, he decided to make it easier for them. Maybe then they’d leave him alone (they didn’t (ever)). 

It also helped him. It gave him an explanation. He couldn’t understand humanity because he was a sociopath. Not because he was an alien or a weirdo. Or stupid. He wasn’t stupid. 

This way, it was pointless of him to _want_ to understand, because it could never work anyway, and he knew it. 

So he didn’t want to be a part of it. He didn’t want to keep interacting with them, their rude (hurtful, except not, because he didn’t care) words, and dealing with their mind-numbing stupidity and ignorance. 

His parents thought it would be just a phase. That he’d name himself a sociopath to protect his feelings, but eventually give in to… whatever it was that all the other people seemed to share. 

His mother worried for him, and that made him feel bad. She looked at him with a certain hopelessness in her eyes. When he’d announced his self-diagnosis during dinnertime, she’d looked at him with pity and shook her head slowly. Disapproving.

His father was a bigger mystery. Not that Sherlock was interested in him or his reaction. He’d always been a passing figure in Sherlock’s life, not entirely present, almost like a ghost. He’d nodded along like Sherlock had just said the potatoes were very delicious on that particular evening.

Mycroft had simply smiled. 

That night, he played the violin until light streamed into his room through the open curtains. His fingers bled and his back was stiff the entirety of the next day. He had always found that playing the violin was very soothing to him. He had always cherished the way the practiced movements took the weight off of his mind. 

When he was thirteen, his parents decided to send him to a different boarding school. Well, they were encouraged to do so by the previous school’s headmistress, who had been unreasonably angry with a small “accident” during a chemistry lesson. Okay, so he _had_ thrown an unknown substance at a “colleague”. And there was no real way to prove that Sherlock had known that it was acidic and harmful. Except for the fact that he was Sherlock and it was Chemistry.

Apparently, it had been enough for a forced and sharp “suggestion” of his removal from the school.

Of course, that was what prompted his parents to transfer him. Not the incessant bullying or the crippling loneliness he suffered from. He _was_ a sociopath, after all. It didn’t bother him “as much as it should”. 

The new school wasn’t as fancy as his old one, but he had never really cared about that sort of thing. He knew the professors would be just as incompetent and the colleagues just as mean regardless of where he went. He did feel a spark of hope as the family car pulled up next to the institution, but he quickly pressed it down.

He shouldn’t want it. He couldn’t have it. And he _didn’t_ want it.

The buildings were tall and rectangular. There was a taller middle building, where he supposed classes were held, and two shorter, longer buildings on each side of it. The dorms, of course. Behind the school there was a big rugby field, surrounded by tracks for running. Right next to it, there was a gymnasium, presumably with some other sort of sports field and a swimming pool.

Dull. Very dull. But Sherlock supposed he didn’t know what a campus he found interesting would look like. Maybe he’d never find anything interesting. The thought sent a shudder through his body. He clutched his violin’s case handle tightly. 

As he slipped out of the car, his father took care of his luggage, setting it on the pavement heavily. His mother hugged him tightly as she whispered her goodbyes.

“Be good, okay? Be good and they’ll do the same.”

He squirmed away. Mycroft’s goodbyes flickered past his eyes. He had just moved out of their parents’ house. Sherlock pushed that thought away. 

His father nodded at him without a word and went back into the car. 

Sherlock stood on the pavement for a few moments, violin in hand, luggage off to his side. At the age of thirteen, the boys his age were still growing at strange and unpredictable paces. Regrettably, he was on the shorter end of “average” in height.

He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but most of the others pilling into the dorms loudly weren’t either. He knew that, after that day, he’d have to wear it every single day and look like one of those buffoons. He sighed.

The boys were already looking sideways at him, at his strange and still figure, his peculiar instrument case and intense glare. 

It was okay. Because he didn’t care.


	2. Freak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he's moved to the upperclassmen's building, Sherlock's life gets a whole lot harder, and he loses control of his own intellect for a bit. How will he restore it?

Not long after he was transferred, Sherlock concluded he was gay. Not surprising, considering he was going to an all-boys school. Also horribly timed, as it seemed people already had enough reason to hate him. 

He hated the changes his body had gone through with puberty. He’d grown excessively tall and gangly, the loss of his baby fat accentuating an abnormal bone structure that really did make him seem like an alien (even though that was not his new bullies’ preferred term of torment). 

With these changes came another way of looking at things as well. Sherlock wasn’t exactly pleased with it. He had spent years and years – all his life, in fact – perfecting the way he looked at the world. Seeing how every single detail of everything related to people’s actions, their emotions and history.

With the changes to his body, he started to look at the other boys with a purely appreciative gaze, one that didn’t capture any data _at all_. Whenever he caught a glimpse of the other boys in the collective showers or through the doors of the dorms as they changed, he found himself flushing from the tips of his ears to his chest. Also, he found he couldn’t watch Prof. Sherry’s lectures without feeling faintly dizzy, and not just bored. 

It was apparently obvious even to those stupid, moronic teenage boys with which he shared the dormitories (he’d just moved to the second building, the upperclassmen’s) what the flush covering his body meant when they were all naked. And they were violently opposed to it.

It had first come to light right as Sherlock left the showers. He’d looked at one of the most physically fit upperclassmen and reacted like a blushing virgin (which he was). The boy, 

Yes, he was the tallest fourteen-year-old, even if he was one of the youngest boys in his grade, but in the upperclassmen’s building, he was definitely frail by comparison. 

It didn’t help that his roommate, Victor Trevor, was incredibly determined to give all the information about him he could gather so as to make his life difficult. Sherlock knew it was just because he didn’t want anyone to associate him with the strange, abnormal faggot, but it was still awful to share the place he slept with someone who hated him. 

If it wasn’t for Sherlock’s _other_ unredeemable qualities, he would probably be called a faggot more than anything else. But because he was so off-putting in more prominent different ways, he was called a freak (and an _admitted_ sociopath on top of it all). To them, it probably tied in with the gay thing perfectly.

He didn’t like any of the boys in particular, but he hated all of them equally. No, that wasn’t true. He hated some more than others. Sebastian Moran, for one, was usually part of the harsher part of Sherlock’s bullying, seeing as he was the one who most often threw the punches, kicks and other assorted forms of assault at him. His roommate was also a horrible person, feeding the group of bullies all sorts of fake stories about Sherlock. 

He hated it there.

There was a place where most of them would leave him alone, though. The lab. The library was also a very good place to go when he didn’t want anyone to find him, except there was no way to regulate who came in and at what times. The lab had a regular schedule that was strictly followed, and no one was ever there outside of it. It was blessedly open during off times.

While he was there, he continued the experiments he had at home. He read the Chemistry books. He thought. 

Sherlock had a really hard time thinking. He had always been able to organize his thoughts meticulously, in a sort of room he’d created. This way, he could store all of the information in a way it was easily accessible. But ever since he’d gotten to that school it was harder and harder to organize the room. There was too much, all the time. 

And he couldn’t even play the violin to calm himself. It annoyed Victor Trevor and every single person around their living space, as he’d learned the first time he’d dared to play (five different people had banged on the door telling him to shove the violin up his arse lest they throw it out the window). He couldn’t risk those dunderheads turning their attention to his beloved instrument. 

It got worse as the year progressed. By Christmas, he was getting beat up every week, sometimes more than once, and had to start hiding his belongings, as they were turning up broken and ruined. Showering with all of them was definitely the most difficult part of all of that, as it was when they were all more hostile. They threw bottles of shampoo at him and shoved him around. Which he found strange, since all their quips seemed to be about how averse they were to the supposed desire Sherlock had to touch them whilst naked. 

He knew they were stupid. 

He locked himself in one of the stalls after they’d all gone to sleep and wondered if it would ever change. He only had himself, and his mind seemed to be overflowing and disorganized. As if there was a ceiling fan in the middle of his room, scattering all of his papers endlessly. 

It was an encounter with Professor Sherry that ended up helping him most of all. It had happened just before the Christmas break. Because of all that in addition to his overwhelming disinterest in the boring, predictable classes, he had been in trouble with the professors more and more. So the Chemistry teacher asked to speak with him after class. 

While he waited for the other boys to leave, sat on his desk, a note dropped in front of him. He didn’t see who did it, but the crude message could be a taunt from any of them. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to “ _suck the professor’s cock like a good boy_ ”.

The professor sat down on the desk in front of Sherlock’s and sighed. The boy was fully prepared to let every single thing the man said fall into the bin in his room, but he was surprised at the man’s words.

“It’s so unfair. I know it is. You are really smart, Mr. Holmes, and every single paper you’ve handed in has been brilliant! But I see you are having difficulty in class.” Sherlock snorted. “ _Not_ because you find it difficult, mind you. Because of the other boys.”

Sherlock looked at his shoes. They were the same as all the other boys’. Uniforms were dull. 

Professor Sherry tilted his head so he could see Sherlock’s face, and the boy blushed. 

The Professor was a young man, between his twenties and thirties, and Sherlock couldn’t help the gaze that sometimes he unconsciously sent his way. He wasn’t outlandishly tall, standing just taller than Sherlock himself at that age, and he was entirely coated by a _healthy_ amount of muscle. The vests he insisted on wearing to every lecture were a _good_ choice for him.

His eyes were a deep brown and his face was perfectly structured, his light scruff accentuating his jawline very… _well_. His demeanor was all wrong, though. He was worried. Or maybe intrigued (Sherlock got those two mixed up a lot).

“Sherlock…” he started, looking at the boy intently, “Why don’t you ever stand up for yourself? Those boys treat you horribly…” his voice was firm but gentle.

“I don’t… I don’t want to be rude.” He held Prof. Sherry’s stare, and the man frowned.

“Sherlock, there’s a difference between being rude and not letting people walk all over you,” he said calmly. His tone was very calming in general (at least to the boy).

“Well…” His voice grew small. He hated talking about the faults in his knowledge. “I’m not good at telling the difference, so I just…stopped engaging…”

The professor then asked a series of follow-up questions that had to do with psychology and therapy. It all made Sherlock very uncomfortable, so he told the man about the room and his recent problem with it. 

“It’s like I can’t organize it anymore…There are too many things.”

Professor Sherry had started looking a little baffled ever since Sherlock started with the whole mind organizing room talk, but he seemed to be following his line of reasoning.

“Maybe it’s too small. Why does it need to be only a room? I’m sure you could fill an entire house with what you seem to know about Chemistry already,” he said with a chuckle.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. It was at times like these that he wondered if Mycroft was really correct about him not being up to par to the family’s standards of intellect. Of course. He could build a whole house to store the things he knew! A _palace_!

He thanked Prof. Sherry enthusiastically for the idea and leapt off of his chair. The man chuckled, and if Sherlock hadn’t been so ecstatic, adrenalin pumping through his veins in excitement for the first time in months (years?), he’d blush at the sound.

“Oh, and Sherlock,” he called as his student crossed through the doorframe. He turned around to look at his teacher. “Don’t hide who you are…It’s not worth it.”

He did blush as he walked through the hallway.

His Christmas holidays were great. With Mycroft out of the house, he was mostly left alone (after a brief conversation with his mother about the school year just as he’d arrived), and it felt bloody amazing.

He hadn’t had time to himself during which he could actually relax since he’d left the Holmes’, being so alert around Victor Trevor and the other boys with whom he shared the dormitories. It felt nice to play his violin, and even nicer to expand on his mind. 

He sat on his bed upright for days and days, ignoring his mother’s soft knocks on his door. He didn’t even hear her words. It was like magic. With a bigger place, one he’d spent hours drawing up the blueprints for on his own mind, he could fill his palace with the things that warmed him inside. Also, the information was _much_ easier to reach in this new place. 

He’d never admit to anyone that building his mind palace had been Professor Sherry’s suggestion, but later in life he’d look back at the man with a rare fondness.

Sherlock found it easier to read people after that. He still couldn’t understand them, but he could see what they were on them. With all the information in his brain so readily accessible, every single detail on a person was easily related to the many things he’d read, studied, researched. 

He used to look at people with that analytical eye, but was always scared of saying what he’d seen – _observed_ – out loud. People never responded well to it. So all these things used to just float uselessly around his room. He didn’t know what to do with all that information. 

He wasn’t going to let it be like that anymore. Not ever again. 

Why should he sit quietly at a lecture given by a clearly incompetent professor when he could pick him apart in pieces? Or, like Prof. Sherry had told him, let the boys in his grade walk all over him when he could tell their darkest secrets?

The young boy was intrigued by this newfound control.

His mother was worried for him. She’d come in his room after the third day he’d locked himself in, sat down next to him and said in in a soft tone: “I’m worried about you, Lockie.”

He was not fond of the nickname. They sat in silence for a while, and she’d laid her hand on his shoulder lovingly. He squirmed. She still couldn’t understand his misanthropic tendencies. Why would someone not want, not need, a connection in this world.

No, Sherlock didn’t need anyone. He had himself, his mind.

And his own manual to decode everything else.


	3. Psychopath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock introduces the world to his brilliant mind. Now they think he's a psycho. Professor Sherry doesn't approve of this new development.

“The freak is back.”

He stopped in his stride, turning to look inside his room. Victor Trevor was there chatting with Sebastian Moran. They were both looking at him with sneers on their faces. He held his chin high, just as he’d done in front of the mirror that morning, and unlocked the filter between his brain and his mouth.

“…is what your parents said as soon as you got home for Christmas Break.”

Victor’s expression changed rapidly. He was shocked, and looked at Sebastian and then Sherlock again, slack-jawed. The older boy’s expression hardened, and his fists clenched in anger. 

He stood up slowly, trying to look menacing, and Sherlock told himself that that was only the case if he believed it was. The younger boy used his height to his advantage. 

He’d spent many years with his eyes glued to the floor, his figure slumped over in an effort to minimize the weirdness of his proportions, trying not to be rude, trying not to hurt anyone, holding his elbows in. 

But, as he stood with his back straight, one hand in his pocket and another holding his violin case, he met Moran’s eye level perfectly. And he felt _good_.

“What did you just say to me, you fucking ass?”

Sherlock’s demeanor did not waver. He ran his thumb soothingly across his closed fingers, far away from Moran’s eyes, in his pocket.

“Well, it’s quite obvious,” he laughed. “The whole bully routine. It didn’t start here, I know, because your peers look at you with fear, perhaps even respect. They wouldn’t fear you if you’d been bullied while they watched, it’s simple psychology. If they’d seen you weakened, they wouldn’t fear you, so it can’t have been that. Now, you could have been bullied at a previous school, but the way you walk, your posture around the other students, suggests that you’ve never had a reason to be fearful around people your age. It’s a dominant posture. So it had to have been a bully inside your house. Those signs are practically textbook. Around adults, our teachers to be precise, you never raise your voice or command the room, so it’s been struck to you thoroughly that that kind of behavior around adult figures is to be condemned, and you never speak in class unless you’ve been directly asked a question by a professor, you don’t even pass notes. It’s all respectful behavior, and you might just be a respectful individual, except for the fact that you treat you peers and the underclassmen with unwarranted disdain and malice. It’s because you feel the need to dominate them, and that is what domination looks like to you. Not the way the professors treat us, of course, the way your parents treat you. That’s everyone’s primary example anyway. The way you act around the teachers, though, is what makes it so _obvious_. This domination you want to exert. You wouldn’t be scared of the professors if it was just about domination. Domination is punctual. You relate it to discipline. Therefore, the only possible explanation is that this behavior is to be explained by your parents.”

He said all of this really fast, and when he slipped in, he had a hard time stopping. There were many other things flittering around Sherlock’s mind, but he drew himself to a hard stop. He had control.

Moran was looking at him wide-eyed. Victor Trevor was staring at the scene in exasperation, as if he couldn’t decide what to think. 

“W…what are you, stalking me, _fag_?”

Sherlock was a little taken aback by the quiver in Moran’s voice, but quickly wrote it off, as it was flu season. 

“No, no. I simply observed. I have more interesting things to do than stalk the likes of you. I was just reminded of it now because of the bruising you are hiding beneath your school jacket, on your wrist.” He smirked. “So sloppy. We never wear those outside of class, least of all you. They’re uncomfortable, and that is definitely something you care about. You wear _sweatpants_.”

Victor’s eyes jumped to Sebastian’s wrists immediately, which the boy covered further by shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“No, I just like sweatpants, you fucking lunatic,” he said, eyes watery. It was flu season. 

“Really? You really like sweatpants? You spend a minimum of ten minutes doing your hair every morning and you like the way that sweatpants look?”

“Shut up!” He yelled.

He stormed past Sherlock without so much of a shove, which was surprising, and walked through the packed corridor in silence. Only then did Sherlock notice that a crowd had gathered around the door and multiple people were staring at him in silence. 

He swooped his eyes over them, gathering data, and most of them flinched away, going into their rooms. 

Sherlock smiled and sighed. They didn’t like him, but at least they didn’t push him around. They pretty much left him alone, after that. Pretty much. Well, compared to what was happening before, these new developments were nothing.

He closed the door and laid his violin out on his bed. His trunk was left at the foot of his bed. He wouldn’t hide his books anymore. None of his things were going to be put under his bed or locked inside his desk. 

He heard Victor shift behind him. 

The boy was standing behind him, tall. He was one of the taller boys in their grade as well, and he almost matched Sherlock in height, though his proportions were more regular, he was more filled out than the other boy.

“That was ruthless. I can’t believe you did that in front of everybody.”

Sherlock faltered, but he hoped it didn’t show in his expression. He couldn’t go back, though. No, he’d never go back. He had never felt this good. Anyway, it didn’t matter. He’d known that they wouldn’t like him like this. They hadn’t already.

And he didn’t care. 

He turned around to face Victor and sat on his bed, which bounced a bit.

“He didn’t care to hide when he was beating me, humiliating me, and as a matter of fact, neither did you.” He paused. Victor looked conflicted. “So why should I?”

“It’s – It’s different!”

“How?” Sherlock asked, and he wished it sounded more menacing than desperate. “Tell me how.”

Victor sized him up, and Sherlock suddenly felt a bit uncomfortable sitting down. A moment passed. He stood and went back to unpacking his luggage, organizing his books on his desk and clothes on his closet.

“You really don’t know, do you?”

Victor’s eyes were filled with that same old disgust that Sherlock was so used to. But then, with a layer of fear. 

“You’re a psycho.”

Sherlock let out a half-smile. 

“High-functioning sociopath, thank you very much.”

That night, as he lay in bed a couple of feet away from the other boy’s bed, he smiled to himself. He’d finally done it – he was to others what he was to himself. And he’d never hide it again. 

It felt nice, he mused, to walk down the hallways without fear of being shoved, people staring at him like he’s a strange and undesirable food, but not one that they actively hate. It felt like preschool all over again. He felt alien.

There was one key difference: he was now an alien with the power to destroy the earth. His confrontation with Sebastian Moran lapped the school faster than any track runner ever had, and people were very confused as to what had happened.

Many of them thought he’d been stalking Moran, and whenever he passed those in the halls, they’d hide their things or walk the other way, looking over their shoulder.

Others thought he had some sort of contact in the government (which was true, but unrelated) and that he had access to all sorts of files and documents that listed out people’s history. Those just stared at the ground as they passed him, so as to not invoke his wrath.

A few students had come up with other theories, some of which involved telepathic abilities and/or Sherlock having come from another planet. Those pulled funny faces at him, unconvinced of his “tricks” or just uncaring.

It didn’t make him any friends, but it did erase many enemies. Not all.

The memory of his and Sebastian’s conversation only lasted him about a month of peace of mind. People seemed to convince themselves that, whatever it was that Sherlock did, it was a one-time trick.

So, one day after class, he exited the building to find Sebastian Moran, Phillip Anderson and some other upperclassmen whose names he wasn’t familiar with, all waiting for him.

“Hey, _Sherly_. I think it’s just been too long since we’ve all hung out,” Anderson said harshly. 

Sherlock had been very familiar with the shape of Anderson’s fists, and just seeing him again, surrounded by all the other upperclassmen who were fond of beating him up, sent shivers up his spine.

Just as Sherlock started to collect data on all of them mutely, two of the guys whose names he didn’t know shoved his books to the ground and grabbed his arms. They were dragging him to the back end of the building, but just as Sherlock began to lose his footing, he heard Professor Sherry’s voice.

“Hello, boys. What are you doing over there?” He asked calmly, picking up Sherlock’s books, strewn about the floor all messy and crumpled. 

The boys quickly separated from him, huffing disappointedly and crossing their arms. Anderson straightened his back: 

“We were just talking, Professor. It seemed Sherlock had a lot to say, so we were just giving him the opportunity to do it.”

Prof. Sherry handed Sherlock his books. 

“Well, the conversation’s over. I have to have a talk with Mr. Holmes.”

He laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder, guiding him back into the building, while Moran and Anderson seethed. Sherlock heard them muttering about ‘getting him later’ or something like that. He rolled his eyes. 

They were so predictable. They might as well have been in a Stephen King novel – such common bullies. Sherlock felt he deserved at least a bit more effort (not that he was looking to suffer, just that if he did, they might as well make it a bit more interesting or challenging).

“Sherlock,” his teacher started once they arrived at his classroom. “What are you doing?”

The boy was confused. Professor Sherry did not seem to approve of his actions.

“What do you mean? I’m not letting people walk all over me anymore, just like you said I shouldn’t.”

He sighed and sat down, motioning for Sherlock to do the same, which he did hesitantly. 

“You can’t do…whatever it is that you did.”

Sherlock’s heart fell through his chest. Then, he felt angry.

“Well, why not?”

Prof. Sherry’s eyes met his. 

“They’re calling you a psychopath, Sherlock. Your words hurt them, just as their words hurt you.”

Sherlock scoffed. 

“Their _words_? No, Professor, it wasn’t their words that hurt me. It was their fists. Perhaps you mixed those up, just as you’ve been mixing up acids and bases the entire semester.”

Prof. Sherry tilted his head to the side, eyebrows raised.

“Lashing out isn’t a personality, Sherlock. It’s a defense mechanism. And you _know_ this, you’re smart.”

“Smart enough to know that you wish that the rumors surrounding our little ‘conversations’ were true,” he spat. 

Prof. Sherry looked like Sherlock had just shot him. He frowned, hurt, and looked down to his lap. 

“Be good, Sherlock,” he said, just as Mycroft had said after his first year, “or you’ll end up alone. Stop pushing people away…”

“There’s no one to push away! They are the ones who don’t want to be around me!”

“That’s because you don’t try!”

Sherlock felt his body going against all that he was, bringing tears to his eyes.

“I’ve done nothing but try.”

“Try harder.”

He felt a sob growing in his chest.

“I don’t know how to be any other way. I’m a high-functioning sociopath.”

He looked up at his teacher, and the man sighed. He looked defeated. Sherlock stood up abruptly and nearly sprinted out the door. 

Before he got away, as a sad mirror of the last time it had happened, Prof. Sherry called out to him as he crossed the doorframe. 

“I just hope someday you’ll let somebody in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey-o! I hope you like this chapter, if you did please leave a kudos and comment to let me know and the next one will probably be delayed a little bit (I got a test week :/)... Writing deductions is very hard, ok? Go easy on me. Have a good one!! Byee :)


	4. Brat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets someone new. Can it be that he was wrong for thinking that he was better off alone?

Sherlock decided to delete his conversation with Prof. Sherry from his mind palace. Well, actually he decided it push it down, far away in a dusty cardboard box hidden away in the attic.

How was he to be good when everyone around him treated him like dirt? The professor’s words didn’t make any sense. Didn’t he need to _stop_ letting people walk over him? Stand up for himself?

It didn’t matter, because he’d never felt as good as he did when he was picking Moran apart. He’d suffered so much at the hands of the other boy. It seemed Sherlock had a taste for revenge. 

In order to keep the boys away from him, Sherlock deduced away at some of the professors during class. Most of them had flushed, denied his allegations and sent him to the principal’s office. 

Except for Prof. Sherry, whom Sherlock decided to leave out of his rampage for no particular reason. He just didn’t want to have another “chat” with the man. 

It mostly worked. In the showers, the boys just stood away from him and scowled instead of jeering and pushing, and Victor stopped talking to him altogether, never again touching his things. 

Just as it seemed things were looking up, Sherlock was introduced to a boy a year ahead of him. He’d seen him from afar, but as his interest hadn’t been peaked by him (as it hadn’t really been by a person), the boy had been forgotten. 

He’d been walking the grounds, searching for any new soil he could sample for any sort of experiment to save him from the enormous boredom of the common curriculum when he’d heard him.

A voice behind him. A strong Irish drawl.

“I don’t _quite_ believe the things I’ve heard about you.”

Sherlock stood up from his squatted position and let go of the rock he’d already analyzed the type of a while ago. He turned to find the other boy was closer than he’d imagined. Not even a meter away. 

Sherlock sighed. 

“That’s very predictable,” he said, wiping his hands on his uniform trousers. 

The Irish boy’s eyebrows shot up playfully, and he smirked. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Are you bored?”

Sherlock bristled at the correct assumption. 

“Of course, a person of my intellect – ” 

“This isn’t about your intellect.”

Sherlock shot the boy a dirty look. 

“Oh, so it’s about my chronic lack of empathy?”

The other boy chuckled. Sherlock wasn’t sure what he found funny.

“You see… I am also,” he paused, and looked at Sherlock with something unknown in his eyes. “Bored.”

Sherlock found himself to be paralyzed under the intense gaze. The boy stepped closer to him, equal to him in height, and took a small piece of paper from his uniform jacket’s inside pocket smoothly.  
Then, he leaned into Sherlock and kept his eyes glued to the younger boy’s mouth. And slipped his hand into Sherlock’s back pocket. He lingered for a few seconds and then whispered: 

“The name is Jim Moriarty.”

He left, but Sherlock stood immobile in the same spot. His arms were full of goosebumps. He was… intrigued to say the least. And very flustered. He hoped that his cheeks hadn’t gone as red as they used to get when he was smaller. 

He felt like the odds of the interest of another boy in that school fall upon him were slim. But surely there were other gay boys. And when the options were few, maybe they’d consider playing around with him.

He felt happy. He wasn’t used to seeing himself as desirable. It felt good.

When he got to his room at night, he looked at his violin longingly. He wanted to play, to work through his thoughts, organize his mind to the fine tune of Chopin or Liszt. He knew, however, that any and all attempts to play would result disastrously for himself, even if he’d gained a certain reputation.

Victor looked at him strangely. He bit his lip as if he were thinking of what he should do. 

“You look very idiotic with that face.”

The boy seemed surprised that Sherlock was speaking with him. It had been a while since even the most basic verbal communication, and even then, they’d usually only trade “Can I turn off the light?”s and the occasional “I think we’re late for breakfast.” 

Victor scoffed and turned around, grabbing his towel and toiletries and heading to the showers. 

“Every time I try to feel any sympathy for you, you go ahead and prove to me again that you don’t deserve any.”

“Is that so?” Sherlock replied before he could exit dramatically. “Because I vividly remember you being an active participant in bullying me.”

Victor leaned on the wall and looked at the ground. He seemed guilty. But Sherlock couldn’t really tell. He could, however, tell that Victor was an exclusively shower masturbating guy. And that his poor bath sponge seemed to take the brunt of it. 

“People change. I know the way I acted before was wrong.” He paused a bit, looking at Sherlock, who’d crossed his arms defensively. “But so is whatever it is you’re doing.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“You’re a right arsehole, you know? Maybe you _do_ actually deserve it.”

With that, he left their room, and Sherlock was left sat on his bed, pensive. Then, he grabbed his towel and toiletries as well, heading for the usual corner stall, refusing to think about it any longer. 

Surprisingly, he didn’t notice Jim Moriarty staring at him unabashedly as he changed clothes into his pajamas. He had one too many things on his mind. He hated that he could’ve had a friend. 

But, seeing as it was Victor, he assumed it wouldn’t have been that great a friendship. And he’d never really enjoyed anyone else’s presence in his life, unless they were dogs. Mycroft was allergic, though, so they’d never had one. 

The next day, he was sitting alone on the grass outside the building for lunchtime (which he usually skipped, due to the loudness of the cafeteria and unpleasant _heavy_ feeling of being sated), when he decided to text Jim Moriarty. 

The boy had been interesting, he had to admit. How had he known that Sherlock’s lifelong struggle was against boredom? And did he suffer from the same ailment?

The same gift, as Mycroft would say.

He wrote simply: Hello. – SH

Then, he reformulated: Hello, Jim Moriarty. –SH

He was still unsatisfied, however, so he typed out: Hello, Jim Moriarty. I’m still bored. –SH

Sherlock entertained the possibility of sending him a lewd message or an innuendo, but he was more curious than he was attracted to the Irish boy. Even though he was very attractive. So he opted out of it.

For the rest of the day, he tried his best to ignore the nagging sensation of his hand wanting to reach into his trousers’ pocket and check his phone. He only did so when the lights were already turned off and he was laying sideways on his bed, ready to sleep.

There was a reply. 

Biting his lip, he anxiously clicked on the notification, and the message popped up: Then play that beautiful violin of yours. 

Sherlock felt excited. Of course, there were many ways that Jim could’ve obtained the knowledge of his instrument. But he wanted to believe that Jim was like him, that he’d read it on his calloused fingers and restless demeanor. 

He looked at his violin. Well, he hadn’t played in a long time while at school, and he was sure that doing so would poke around on the general person’s annoyance and hatred of him, that had been lying dormant a while.

He sat up on his bed. It isn’t like he slept most nights, anyway. He’d sometimes read under the light of the corridor or the bathroom or just pace around the halls of his mind palace, adding calming things – rather, sorting them together. 

And he had to admit that there was something riveting about playing his violin for Jim without even knowing if the boy would hear it or what his response would be. He liked the idea of Jim, lying in bed, and awakening surprised or unsurprised to hear confirmation that Sherlock had done what he’d suggested. 

Ultimately, that was what pushed Sherlock to reach for the violin case, carefully open it, and, under the moonlight filtered through the curtains, softly bowing the first shaky notes of Franz Liszt’s _Rêve_.

He played the whole song, through Victor’s grumbling and distant shushing sounds, thinking only of what Jim’s response might be. When he was finished, his roommate articulated sleepily:

“This is why nobody likes you.”

“There are plenty other reasons,” he whipped back matter-of-factly. 

But his words held no venom because in his mind he couldn’t stop the pesky thought that Victor was wrong. Somebody did like him. And he couldn’t stifle the small voice in the back of his head, stuffed inside the dusty attic of his mind palace, that whispered that he hadn’t noticed that he had been very, very lonely before this one interaction with this boy he’d never met. 

The next morning, he’d gotten another text from Jim. It read only: Beautiful.

And, when he passed him in the halls, Jim stopped him with a hand to his arm and whispered in his ear that “There might be hope for a brat like you yet,” then quickly scattered, hand lingering, without pausing to notice Sherlock’s blush – he already knew of it.

For sure, the word _brat_ leaving Jim’s lips had to have been the most erotic thing he’d ever heard. Yes, the Irish drawl had obviously helped. And the best thing he’d ever been called. Maybe it was just Jim, who was the most interesting person he’d ever been around.

And he wanted Sherlock, even if he was a bit of a brat. 

There was nothing, nothing, nothing else on Sherlock’s mind for the rest of the day. And it felt so good, he was rapidly becoming addicted to the feeling – his mind was almost blank. It felt only second to playing his violin in the middle of the night, feeling as if he had permission to play.

Maybe Sherlock was wrong about people. Maybe the only thing wrong with him was that he’d spent his days around bullies. There was one person whom he wouldn’t mind being around at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm so sorry this took this long! I had a ton of school stuff to do and I just had like, NO TIME. It's also a little bit shorter than the others, but I promise I won't be stingy with the next one. Special shoutout to AsBen, who totally caught my Handsome Devil reference! <3


	5. Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Sherlock's relationship.   
> (tw: Mild sexual content and harmful power dynamic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm so so so sorry it took this long! I had a ton of school projects, then finals week, then this movie I made (and overall depression and lack of motivation). Please enjoy! I'll try to update more regularly from now on :)

It shouldn’t have taken so long for Sherlock to see that there was something wrong between him and Jim. But it did. He didn’t want to admit why, but he knew it had to do with how lonely he was.

He didn’t notice that when Jim walked past him in the halls, his hands lingered on his lower back and his beady eyes stared at the other boys with a strange glint. Or that the older boy had taken to taunting and badmouthing Professor Sherry. Or that when Sherlock played the violin in front of Jim for the first time, his eyes darkened and his trousers tented around his crotch.

Maybe he did take note of that last bit, but not because of his self-preservation instincts. The hairs on the back of his neck stood as a chill ran throughout his body. Jim had stood up and grasped the place where the bow Sherlock was holding met the violin’s string. Then, he’d held the instrument in his hands, Sherlock’s own falling slack, his long fingers dangling away without a hint of the well-practiced discipline of wielding an instrument such as that one, the steel-muscled calloused quality. 

“I like it when you play for me, Sherlock. Only for me.”

It was whispered into the white column of Sherlock’s neck in a greedy, garbled voice. And it stirred Sherlock’s groin. He was barely conscious of his brain’s attempts at registering what was happening while Jim lay his violin on the bed (not as carefully as Sherlock would’ve done it).

It was a Saturday afternoon and Victor was off, having gone to visit his parents. Sherlock hadn’t even thought of the implications of being alone in a room with Jim. He suddenly felt faint. The older boy was still standing very close to him, labored breaths coating his neck, the underside of his jaw and his earlobes. 

Sherlock had never kissed anyone. He tried to do a master search of data in his brain, but the way that the older boy’s hand rose to touch his slightly parted lips had him slow and sluggish. It came up empty anyway. He had _no data_. 

It felt absolutely thrilling.

He looked into Jim’s hungry eyes, both of which were fixed on his mouth. 

“You are such a pretty little bitch.”

The words were drowned out by Jim’s lips, harsh and unrelenting against his, imposing, taking Sherlock as a treat and devouring him. He barely had time to process all the new sensations before Jim parted his lips and probed his tongue into his mouth. 

Sherlock felt Jim’s big hands coming up to grasp and pull harshly at his curls and his cock protruding from his trousers to rub against Sherlock’s lower abdomen. He was pressed against the wall, and he felt as if Jim were consuming him. 

When they broke their lip lock for a breath of air, all Sherlock could do was gasp. Jim slid his lips over his jaw and sucked. He was still holding Sherlock’s hair in his hands, and his scalp was protesting greatly. The younger boy let out a moan that was unidentifiable as pained or pleasured. Jim groaned in approval.

He soon thereafter let go of Sherlock’s throat, which was pleasantly tingly, and his hands wandered down to his waist, which he pulled towards his body, effectively aligning their crotches and grinding down without mercy. Sherlock whimpered.

“Yes… such a good bitch, too. Letting me do all this to you.”

Jim eventually pulled away, his eyes greedy and amused. They only kissed that day, and every time Sherlock thought about that encounter over the next few days, he felt a mixture of shame and arousal. A bitch. 

He didn’t really know what to think of it.

On Thursday, Sherlock paused before leaving early for breakfast and turned to Victor, who was still getting dressed. The other boy blushed and pulled his shirt on quickly.

“What, Holmes?”

“Since when do you call me that?”

Victor rolled his eyes.

“What do you care?”

“Fair point.” Sherlock felt fidgety, but forced his hands to remain still. “I suppose I should tell you that a… Jim Moriarty is going to… be here tomorrow afternoon and so I would… _appreciate it_ if you made yourself scarce.”

Victor’s eyebrow shot up. 

“You’re kicking me out of the room?”

Sherlock scoffed.

“Hardly. I’m just stating that it would be _beneficial_ for both of us if you were not here.”  
Victor turned around to grab his backpack from his desk and ran a hand through his hair lightly. Then, he turned to Sherlock again. 

“You know, I didn’t believe my mates when they told me you were Jim’s new bitch, but I guess they were right.”

Sherlock’s cheeks went pink. He stilled. He was shocked. It rarely happened, but he needed a moment. Jim had told people that he was his bitch? And he’d had other “bitches”? He’d hated the sound of that dirty, dirty word coming from Victor’s lips. 

“I just thought you were supposed to be the smart guy.”

“I am the smart guy! I’m the smartest person in this entire school!” He yelled. 

Victor raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and looked Sherlock up and down. 

“Sure doesn’t look like it.”

Sherlock turned around and ran. But, just as he was exiting the dorm room building, he saw Jim, who was waiting around the door. That immediately dampened Sherlock’s ire. He didn’t know why, but Jim’s presence tended to do that to him. All his emotions were cautious around the older boy. 

He walked up to Jim, who smirked as he got closer and held out his arms to hold Sherlock around the hips. However, the younger boy purposefully stopped walking as soon as Jim was in reach. Jim’s brow furrowed.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but felt a knot in his throat. Why couldn’t he tell Jim off? Looking into the boy’s eyes, he felt an extreme sense of longing. What if he said something and Jim decided he was fed up with Sherlock?

“Sherlock?” He drawled out.

“I’m – I’m not your bitch.” The words sounded weaker than he’d wanted them to. 

“What?” Jim looked surprised. He then stepped closer to Sherlock and rested his hands on his hips in a different way than he had when they were snogging. It was a gentle, calming touch.

Sherlock tensed up and looked around. His school wasn’t exactly known for being tolerant of his kind, and he had always assumed that Jim was closeted. But, judging by the way every single boy who walked past them averted their eyes, Jim was out and the school sort of ignored that detail about him. 

He was struck by how little he knew Jim. 

“Victor Trevor told me that there’s a rumor going around that I’m your new bitch.”

Jim looked angry for a second. His hand tightened around Sherlock. But then, they relaxed, and he looked a little more comforting.

“People in this school tend not to see my relationships for what they are.” He looked at the ground, and guided Sherlock to a stroll into the school’s green area, where they’d initially met. “When I got in, I made a point of telling everyone I was gay. I had to fight to gain their respect. They are scared of me because I made them be scared of me. Sadly, that has only ever extended to myself and never the guys I like.”

He held Sherlock’s hand, and the boy blushed.

Jim looked at him out of the corner of his eye. He seemed unaffected by all this.

“I’m sorry I got angry.”

“You can make it up to me,” he said, conniving smirk upon his face. “Come to _my_ dorm tomorrow instead.”

Sherlock smiled. He was nervous, but that hardly mattered when it was Jim who was with him, guiding him with gentle hands. As they were walking back towards the cafeteria, Sherlock was struck by another moment of doubt. 

“But then… why did you call me a bitch?”

Jim turned to him, amused.

“Well, _that’s_ just bedroom talk. Would you like me to stop?”

Sherlock blushed and Jim winked in response. 

That night, Sherlock glared at Victor while the other boy prepared to sleep.

“I’m not Jim’s bitch.”

Victor sighed and looked at Sherlock warily.

“He’s done this before. Remember Michael, who left school last year?”

Truth was, Sherlock hardly payed attention to the other boys at his school unless they turned out to be a threat. He begrudgingly shook his head.

“Well, Jim had his way with him and then him and all his friends beat him up for ‘seducing’ him and trying to ‘turn him gay’.”

Sherlock let out a half-scoff half-sigh.

Victor actually looked somewhat caring.  
“Just don’t get too close to him.”

“Since when have you cared about my feelings?” Sherlock retorted sharply.

Victor took a deep breath. 

“I already apologized for the things I did to you. And to be honest, Sherlock, you might act like an asshole, but… I know that’s not who you are. I’d love to be friends with the guy you were when you came into this school. He was nice.”

“Yeah, well, I liked him too, but he couldn’t handle all your bullshit.”

Victor sighed sadly. 

“Goodnight, Holmes.”

He went to sleep with uneasiness clouding his mind.

He stood outside Jim’s door for a full minute before he knocked. Victor’s words were still sloshing around his brain and he was trying his best to delete them, but they somehow kept creeping up to the forefront of his mind palace.

Jim opened the door for him and kissed him right away. His arms surrounded the entirety of Sherlock and he lifted him up, depositing him on the bed.

He bit Sherlock’s lower lip roughly, drawing up blood. 

“Have you ever had sex?” He asked, in a positively filthy voice.

“No.” He was only fourteen, after all.

Jim smiled wider. His hands slid down to Sherlock’s pants. Sherlock tensed, and his hand flew to stop Jim’s involuntarily.

“Sherlock?” Jim near growled.

“I don’t – I don’t want to. Y – yet.”

Jim sat up and scoffed, displeased.

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock felt horrible. He was supposed to be making things up with Jim, but all he was doing was making things worse. 

“That’s disappointing.”

Sherlock felt very uncomfortable, laying beneath Jim like that.

The boy stood up abruptly and walked towards the door.

“Boys?” He called. “Your turn.”

Sherlock looked at him, heart on his throat. Jim looked disappointed. 

“Maybe someday, Sherlock.”

He then slapped Sherlock across the face, just in time for five boys to walk in, each of them carrying socks with something inside them. Soap, maybe? 

The first blow was surprisingly hurtful, and he cried out loudly. After that, they’d shoved another sock in his mouth and proceeded to ruthlessly beat him, six boys atop him, blow after another breaking him. Each one hurt more than the last until...they all blended in together in a mass of pain. He wasn’t even sure if he was even making any sounds anymore. 

He opened his eyes in pain, searching for the gentleness of the boy who’d approached him on that first day, and not being able to find it even in his memories.

Who had he come to love? 

As soon as they were done, way too much time later, they’d grasped Sherlock by the shoulders and dragged him to the nurse’s office, which was on that same floor. They then bolted, and Jim never once looked back.

Sherlock curled up on the floor, cold and hurt and dirty with blood and sweat. He didn’t even try to knock on the door. He just waited. And waited. And eventually everything went dark.

He woke up in a hospital, for sure. The lights were bright and white, as was the ceiling. He was laying on a hard bed and the sheets were scratchy. He was wearing a hospital gown. And he wondered if he would just rather not have woken up at all instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! Please comment, I crave criticism and need validation (and ideas!! what do you want to see happen?) Have a good week!! Love, Bee <3


	6. ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's a little lost. He needs to make some changes. 
> 
> Maybe a conversation with Professor Sherry will help?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I'm trying to update this fic more often. I know that up till now this hasn't been the most optimistic fic, but I promise you guys that it gets better (angst-wise, bullying-wise, both in real life and in the fic). I'd like to say that bullying is one of the toughest things I've ever had to go through and I really hope that this can help you feel less lonely if you're being bullied right now. I know that fanfic really helped me get through it. Also, my friends. Please enjoy! Bee <3

The first person he saw when he came to was Mycroft. His brother was twirling an umbrella by his bedside and frowning at the floor. He looked at him silently. 

“Sherlock!” He had never seen Mycroft look so ruffled. A strand of his hair had strayed from his gelled up curls. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock couldn’t look him in the eyes. He picked at his sheets instead. He felt Mycroft’s hand coming up to gently touch him in the arm. Sherlock’s eyes felt watery.

“What did I tell you, brother dear?”

“Sod off, Mycroft!” He said, even if his words lacked their usual strength and bite to them. “I tried…”

Mycroft was still staring at him in the eyes, even as Sherlock’s own glazed over eyes ran over the bedding. Mycroft rubbed his hands on his forehead, head between his knees. He sighed heavily.

“You always try, don’t you?”

He wasn’t expecting an answer. At his words, however, Sherlock’s eyes, brimmed with tears, closed and he let out a choked sob, which hurt his split open lip. Mycroft’s hand slid down his arm to grip his hand. 

“Mummy and Daddy are on their way. They’re very concerned.”

“And you?”

“I was in London, Sherlock, for my job. It’s closer.”

Sherlock looked around to the window and saw that it was dark outside. He didn’t want to think about going back to that school, but the thought wormed itself in anyway. It was Thursday, so he had another day of classes before the dark, lonely weekend poked its head out. But he didn’t think he could face it this time. Not with Jim…

“Sherlock, look at me.” He did. Mycroft looked genuinely saddened and it unsettled Sherlock. “What happened?”

Sherlock looked down again. 

“…some boys at school. You know they don’t _like_ me.”

Mycroft tilted his head. 

“Don’t lie to me, brother dear, it’s unbecoming.” Sherlock scoffed. A moment of silence went by. “It was someone you cared for. I can tell by the look in your eyes. Why… why did you let yourself care?”

Sherlock blinked back a new wave of tears. 

“I can’t… I can’t control it like you can, Mycroft. I just – I can’t.” His voice was small. 

“You need to learn.”

“How? How can I be good, not care, defend myself, understand and just – all at the same time! It’s too much! It’s just too much.”

Mycroft scrutinized him.

“Sherlock, listen to me very carefully.” Sherlock was shaking, his gaze upon his brother wavering. “Don’t care. That’s the only thing that matters. If you don’t care, if you keep to yourself, they won’t dislike you, they won’t hate you. That’s all you need, Sherlock. To not care.”

Sherlock looked down at his lap and took a deep breath. 

His parents nearly ran into the room, and that was the end of that conversation.

After that, Sherlock stayed in the hospital for the night and missed Friday’s classes. He could only go back to the school on Saturday morning, but because of the circumstances, the school gave him permission to stay at home for the weekend.

When he entered the room, he was struck by an incredibly forlorn feeling. He had forgotten what it felt like to be between those familiar, comfortable walls. With his soft yellow bedding and his hidden away bee plush. He let his suitcase fall to the floor and ran his hand through the dust that had collected atop his desk. It flew away and shone against the light drifting in from the window. 

He felt empty. His swollen eye throbbed. He cared about his home, his family (not that he’d ever express that sentiment), and he had _cared_ about Jim. He had even cared for Prof. Sherry in some capacity. 

And those had been his fondest and most horrible memories. All of the rest just…existed. Filed one after another inside his mind palace. He didn’t want to stop caring. His room dug up so many feelings that he doubted that it would someday disappear.

It was so powerful, caring. Too powerful. He couldn’t maintain control. 

He understood Mycroft. 

He couldn’t care for someone like he had cared for Jim. It was too hard. Made him too vulnerable. 

His mother had sat with him on Sunday, having brought in tea with her. They talked about his school and what they were going to do. His father didn’t care. Said he was a sissy and should just suck it up. Go to the school anyway and ‘show the other boys he was also a man’. Never mind he had just turned fifteen.

“Sweetie, talk to me. What happened – is it a matter of the heart?”

He turned to his mother red-nosed. Had Mycroft told her anything? She could probably sense the thought, because the next thing she said was: 

“It’s glaringly obvious, dear. I’ve never seen you looking like that. Like you _miss_ someone and hate them at the same time.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sherlock choked out over a sob. 

His mother took his hand from the empty teacup he held. She filled it up and plopped in two sugar cubes. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. 

“My dear, if some boy broke your heart so badly that staring out a window is the only activity you feel like doing, and he is at that school, then I will make sure that next year you are as far away from there as possible.”

Sherlock was shocked. And touched. He didn’t think she would do that. And she had just skipped over the fact that he was gay. He smiled. And he didn’t feel like it was faked.

“Thank you, mom.” His voice cracked. 

He only had three weeks of class before him. It was his father that dropped him off – his mother had an early lecture. They spent the entire car ride in silence, his father side-eyeing him. When they got there, his father opened the trunk of the car and handed him his suitcase. 

“Don’t be a coward, Sherlock.” 

That was the last thing he said. Sherlock stared at him wide-eyed until he drove away. The boy turned around and stared at the tall buildings. Class was an hour away from starting and only a few boys could be seen walking to the cafeteria, late. 

All the same, Sherlock felt as if every step he took was just as scary and dangerous as a gunshot. He felt as if Jim were about to walk out of every single corner, and there wasn’t a single person who didn’t look like an enemy. 

A Moran, an Anderson, a Jim, those faceless people who had beaten him up, the ones who’d just watched and watched as he poisoned himself. Victor. Who had tried to warn him. They were all just lurking around the corner.

Victor spoke to him on the afternoon of the day he arrived, a simple ‘I didn’t know’ that made Sherlock’s guts churn at the simple regret in those words which he had done nothing to earn. Things soon went back to being the same between them after that, though. 

He avoided people during class. He kept to his dorm room. He barely caught a whiff of Jim, which was rather expected, seeing as he had never run into him before being sought out. Eventually, the bruises all faded away. He did have a run-in with Anderson, but he was mostly ignored by the other boy, who seemed stressed with the finals. 

Sherlock barely studied, obviously, but still made top of his class in every single subject. He hadn’t expected another talk with Prof. Sherry, especially after the things he’d said (which he could tell by the way the professor’s jaw clenched every time their eyes crossed during lessons, were hurtful). 

But after the last lesson of the term, he asked Sherlock to stay back politely. Some of the boys leered at him as they passed, no doubt thinking of the old rumors surrounding their talks. The man cleared his throat and leaned against the blackboard.

“Mr. Holmes, I just wanted to express my…”

Sherlock didn’t know what look he had on his face, but as soon as he turned around to face him, leaning against a desk, it made the professor stop on his tracks. They looked into each other’s eyes. 

“I’m really sorry, Sherlock.”

“Why?”

Sherlock felt as if he hadn’t spoken in weeks. His voice came out raspy and desperate.

“I failed you. If I had done something, if I had gotten through to you…”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Professor Sherry looked down at his feet. 

“I just think that I could’ve done more. Tried harder. I could’ve…”

“Fixed me?” He said sharply, and the man’s head snapped up.

“God, no, Sherlock. You don’t need to be fixed.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure either of them believed those words. 

“There was nothing you could’ve done. You tried to talk to me.”

“I meant with the other boys.” He looked directly into the boy’s eyes and walked forward. “You did nothing wrong. They were the ones going after you. They should get more than a written warning, they could’ve –”

Sherlock felt a lump in his throat.

“Well, it hardly matters now. I’m transferring.”

The professor’s eyes widened and he looked sad.

“That might be good for you. I’m glad.”

Sherlock swallowed his pride. If he had allowed himself to care about this man, he could at least indulge himself in one moment where he made that clear. He’d never see him again, anyway.

“You’re the only thing I’ll miss.”

The professor looked even more shocked, and he managed a small, touched smile. 

“I’ll miss you, too, Sherlock.”

They stood there for a while. Then, Prof. Sherry stepped closer, and closer still, until he was right in front of Sherlock. The boy looked at him in confusion. The man’s eyes held a question. Apparently, one Sherlock had answered, because then he lurched forward to gather the slim boy in his arms in a hug.

It lasted little, but Sherlock had never felt more cared for. 

“Thank you,” was what left his lips, without him even noticing.

Prof. Sherry pulled away. He looked at Sherlock as if he were his own son, and then briskly turned to his desk and scribbled something.

“This is my phone number,” he said, pressing it into Sherlock’s hand. “Whenever you need… anything, you can call me. Really, anything at all.”

Sherlock smiled and nodded. 

“My name’s Dan.”

As he exited the building, he thought that he had made a friend after all. And smiled.

On his last day, he felt jittery packing his things. He looked at his violin, eager to play it again but dreading the memories of Jim’s touch all over it and himself. He shuddered and put it away carefully.

Victor was also packing, albeit much more slowly. 

“Do you know if we’ll still be roommates next year?”

“Well, I assume not, especially since I’m transferring.”

Victor whipped around. 

“What?”

Sherlock also turned around, calmly.

“I’m not coming back.”

“Why?”

“What a stupid question.”

The other boy let out a breath through his nose and bit his lip. 

“They’ll all graduate soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

“Come on, Holmes, I – ”

“I can read everyone here like a book, Victor.” He said, coldly, as the other boy furrowed his brow. “You’re all puzzles that I can solve with relative ease. Moran bullies because he was abused by his parents, Anderson wants to dominate because he needs to compensate for the lack of masculinity he sees in himself, no doubt comparing his cock to the ones he sees in porn, …Jim enjoys having power and control over people because he feels too little of it in his own life, in which his parents just dumped him in this school and forgot about him, Professor Sherry has a helper’s complex that probably originated from his own lack of help as a child, but you, _you_ , Victor Trevor. I do not know what keeps you going.”

Victor was startled by all this. He sat down on his bed, looking frazzled. 

“You helped my tormentors, then kept to yourself, then tried to help me, advised me, while still calling me an asshole and implying that I deserved what was happening. Why the sudden changes? Do you want to see me suffer or not? Please. I’m curious, and I won’t be here for much longer, so you can just – ”

Sherlock was deterred by Victor’s lips pressing against his own. It was a chaste kiss, a sudden press of lips, an action in lieu of words. That was a pity, Sherlock never really understood actions. He stood there mutely, staring at Victor. 

“You’re such a prick, Sherlock. I’ll miss you.”

And he never went back to that godforsaken school.


	7. New Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes the next step and thinks about what he's going to do. He even meets someone along the way...

That summer wasn’t good, but at least it wasn’t bad, either. Mummy had lectures almost every day, but she was always home in time for dinner, which Sherlock attended even if he wasn’t hungry and/or didn’t eat anything. 

She was very talkative, and was almost always the center of attention at parties and social gatherings. She just had an allure, a certain quality that made her easy to talk to. That was great for Sherlock, because then he felt less pressured to speak. 

Unlike with his father, who spent the whole day in his study, completely ignoring Sherlock’s existence. The lunches were the worst part, both of them silent and uncomfortable. Sometimes Sherlock would look at him and wonder what tied him to this adult. He came up empty.

They didn’t interact much, which he supposed was good. Sherlock spent most of his days reading, studying, or experimenting with his chemistry set. He avoided looking at his violin, but his fingers itched to play, calloused. His chin ached to feel the instrument under it. 

He took a deep breath and looked out the window. His parents lived in the suburbs of a small town, a couple of hours away from London. He had never personally enjoyed going around it, but looking at it from afar during those summer days had him change his mind. He would be attending the local school, after all.

It was a good school, even smaller than his last one, but he would be able to stay at home, something his mother was very adamant about. At least he knew that this way, there was no way he’d know anybody. It wasn’t a posh school, which made Sherlock very happy. He’d never done well with the posh kids, and maybe this was his chance to be anything other than hated. 

He didn’t have to wear a uniform, as well, which excited him. At the same time, he thought about Mycroft’s words. Don’t care, don’t engage. He liked plain jeans and shirts anyway. Maybe that would help him blend in. 

In general, though, he didn’t spend much time thinking of his new school. He mostly did what he liked most and spent the summer with himself. 

The most excitement that he got from summer vacation was the dinners with Mycroft, who came around every Friday or so and talked with muted excitement about his job (he’d recently got promoted and was frequently in the same room as the prime-minister, something he would not shut up about).

That said, the week before classes started was chaotic. Sherlock tried to ignore it for as long as he could, but the growing sense of despair shook him to the core. His mother took him out on the town to get his textbooks and some new clothes. She held his hand all the way there.

The town itself was quite quaint. Some of the streets weren’t yet covered by asphalt, but rocky and charming. The houses were almost all lined with wood and had flowers out by the windows. It looked like a movie set, basically. Sherlock would’ve rolled his eyes, but he actually enjoyed it a little bit. 

They stopped by the bookstore first, a small little place with plants all lined up at the front. Sherlock immediately spotted the teenagers working inside, so he tried his best to drown inside of his coat. His mother, the all-encompassing presence, immediately went up to the counter to ask for help, smiling, unbothered. 

“Hello! I love the aloe plants you’ve got out front!”

The teenager, a small dirty blonde with a name tag which read ‘Molly’ in loopy handwriting, lit up with the compliment. 

“Thank you so much, Ma’am!”

Sherlock’s mother was thrilled with that response.

“Oh, no problem, dear, they are absolutely delightful! I am a gardener, myself, whenever I can.”

The girl giggled politely and asked what she could do for them. Her eyes briefly drifter to Sherlock, who was trying his best to look like he was enthralled with the back cover of a random book he grabbed from the shelf, which he realized then was called ’ _50 tips to pick up chicks_ ’. 

“My son here is going to be transferring to the local secondary school and we needed some textbooks.”

The girl smiled shyly, her eyes drifting to Sherlock again, who had put down the book like it had burned him and awkwardly waved his hand at her. 

“Wonderful! A bunch of people are coming in to pick them up, we have a section here with all of them already picked out, one second. I’ll be right back.”

She shuffled to the back awkwardly and Sherlock’s mother turned around to give him a hopeful smile. He tried to burrow even further into his coat. He turned back to the bookshelf in an effort to hide himself from the girl who showed up buried under the weight of all their books, explaining each one of them to his mother.

However, as he looked between the books, he saw another teenager on the other side of the shelf, holding a small cart and shelving. His name tag simply read ‘John’. He looked rather tired, almost unnoticeable bags under his eyes and blonde hair falling down his forehead in a – some would say – fashionable way. Sherlock never really did understand the appeal of bedhead, preferring to gel his own curls, but he couldn’t say it didn’t look good on the boy.

He had thick arms, unobstructed by fabric as he wore the same short-sleeved beige shirt as Molly with the bookstore logo. His chest was broad and, while he wasn’t exactly short, he was a little short of Sherlock’s height. 

All these little things came barreling into Sherlock’s mind palace, while the only coherent thought he could form was ‘ _This boy…_ ’

He soon turned to Sherlock, however, about to slide a book into the slot from which he had been looking at him. Their eyes met for a brief second before Sherlock blushed and averted his gaze, looking back at his mother, who was asking about the Charles Dickens book he’d have to read for the curriculum. 

Brown eyes, beautiful brown eyes. A beautiful brown-eyed boy. He needed to forget him. Not care. Not engage. His mother was already paying for his stuff and he avoided looking at the girl. 

His primary strategy was already in development. He needed to simply be invisible. He couldn’t be anyone. He shouldn’t talk to anyone or make eye contact or interact with them in any way (especially with that ‘sharp tongue’ of his). That way, he wouldn’t ever grow to care and there was no possible way he’d screw up and get people to hate him.

He just needed to not exist. And, of course, to not let his traitorous biology win. No more looking at guys. And liking guys. 

They exited the store quickly, and Sherlock never once looked up from the wooden floorboards. Thankfully, he had no run-ins at the clothing store, in which he bought some simple plain T-shirts and some new jeans that fit him snugly. Also, a yellow hoodie. His mother hadn’t liked it when he asked for it, arguing that he had a beautiful overcoat, but he just said he wanted something more toned down. She begrudgingly agreed to it.

The drive out of town was nice. When they passed the bookstore, Sherlock saw John and Molly sitting on the bench out front, presumably taking their lunch break. He looked down at his lap, wistful. 

His mother looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. 

“It will be fine, you know.” He stayed quiet. “I know your colleges haven’t always _liked_ you,” he scoffed and she paused, “but you’re a good person, Sherlock. And good people always find each other.”

Sherlock stared out the window. 

That night, he played the violin for the first time since playing for Jim. He’d picked the instrument up right after dinner and stared at it for a while. He picked it up and just held it in position for a couple of seconds. 

He let out a breath and slid the bow over the strings. He didn’t know what he thought he was going to play, but what came out was entirely new. A sequence of beautiful sounds that expresses his nervousness and excitement. He didn’t know what he was expecting. He just wanted things to be better. 

When he dropped the bow, his arms cramping, he realized his face was wet with tears. He slept in late the next day.

The first day of school was nerve-wracking. His mother dropped him off and he stood at the door for way too long, not going in. He was twenty minutes early. 

He was wearing a pastel blue shirt with his yellow hoodie on top and black skinny jeans. He looked like he could blend in well enough. He’d asked him mom to enroll him as Scott Holmes (one of his three names, as the full one was William Sherlock Scott Holmes), a more normal-sounding name.

He had done everything he could. Now all he needed to do was act normally. He was nervous.

Thankfully, the school didn’t assign him an older student to show him around, so all he needed to do was show up to his assigned classes, which were sent to him by e-mail. 

He shifted. 

He could do it. Two boys walked past him and he just looked at the floor. He looked strange, standing in the middle of the parking lot. 

So he just walked in, went over to his new locker, put in the password and… it wouldn’t open. It was fine, he’d just take all his books with him. Yes, he could do it. He walked towards his first class, Literature. It would have been a challenge had he not downloaded the school blueprints and memorized them. 

He went in briskly, sat down in the third row of six, and brought out his Literature textbook. Some girls were chatting at the front of the class, while some other guy had sat down close to Sherlock and promptly fallen asleep atop an Algebra textbook. Sherlock just looked at his desk and bit his lip.

To his dismay, the professor came in and wrote an equation on the board, proceeding to say that they’d be able to solve it by the end of the year. Then, she introduced the Advanced Algebra class. Sherlock felt panic seeping into his chest, and drowned it out thinking of the course of action that would draw less attention to himself. 

He started to panic. Would it be so bad if he missed his first class? He could just pretend he was late and watch Advanced Algebra instead. Which he’d have to take twice in a row. 

He raised his hand. 

“Yes?”

He cleared his throat noisily.

“I’m very sorry, but it’s my first day and I’m supposed to be in Literature.”

A couple of heads turned to stare at him and he felt himself blush. Some people let out giggles, but most of them didn’t react at all. The professor, a middle aged woman, thankfully was sympathetic. 

“Always happens. No problem, you should run if you want Prof. Porter to let you in.”

He quickly gathered his things into his backpack. A girl sitting in the front row turned her head to her friend, who was sitting two seats in front of Sherlock, and coughed out ‘ _fresh meat looking good_ ’. Sherlock blushed even more. 

The professor gestured to the door and he waved at her awkwardly before opening it. 

“Before you go, though, will you venture a guess as to the answer of the equation on the board?”

He turned around, embarrassed. Should he get it wrong purposefully? 

“Oh, come on, I know you won’t get it right, but you _are_ the new guy, so you should expect some hazing.”

The students looked mildly amused. Sherlock gripped the straps of his backpack. He didn’t want to be laughed at. He glanced at the board for a brief second.

“Infinity times alpha divided by eighty-seven pi.”

The class laughed, and Sherlock smiled slightly. He left before the professor could say anything, but she had a pleasantly surprised smile plastered on her face. 

Sherlock sprinted towards the classroom he should’ve entered (the one _after_ the bathroom) and knocked lightly. The professor let him watch the class and nobody really bothered him. It was a good day.

The only thing he heard spoken of him was ‘ _Oh, he’s the new guy_ ’, and that was good enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey i'm gay and can't do math. Trying to update more often. Some new tags and people coming up! Please comment if you've got input.


	8. Stray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets a nice...ish group of friends and struggles to ignore his brother's voice in the back of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey-o! This might be turning into a bit of a high school AU... :) I'm fine with it if you are.  
> Bee <3

An entire week passed before he had to talk to anyone individually. He’d done a really good job blending in. He’d stayed quiet in class except when singled out and always kept his notebook open, sometimes working out things that had to do with the subject of the class he was in, but never actively paying attention. 

When he was asked a question in class, he gave the right answer, of course, but he never suppressed the layer of anxiety that usually coated his voice. Not over the answer, mind you, but over the prospect of people hearing his voice, his words, the things that had gotten him into trouble in the first place. 

Fortunately, his voice had finally deepened, something he was still growing used to. 

Unfortunately, it called attention to him. Attention from people who were interested in him romantically. It wouldn’t be so unfortunate if boys were also going after him, but it would still be bad. Because Sherlock was still firm in his assessment that he shouldn’t tell anyone that he was gay. 

He was just doing such a good job blending in, and he didn’t want to jeopardize that. So, when Molly (from the bookstore) approached him on the following Monday to class starting, he was already weary. As he saw her walking over, he hoped that she wasn’t about to hit on him and turned around to face the locker that _just wouldn’t open_.

“Hey!”

She was standing behind him as he attempted to open his locker yet again. The first week without it had been fine, but his back was getting tired of carrying around all that weight. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself by struggling with the locker, though, so he just tried to open it once every day (to no avail).

He turned around anxiously. 

“Hello.”

She was very small up close, or maybe it was just his height, which based on his calculations was just above average for the school. He tried keeping his eyes on her face, but he knew his gaze had a tendency to make people uncomfortable. He’d just read a college thesis on body language, and so decided to look at her shoulder and face intermittently. 

“It’s Scott, right?”

He nodded shyly. 

“And you are Molly, if I remember correctly.”

She blushed and her eyes opened in shock, as if she hadn’t known that they’d met previously. He felt a little annoyed. 

“…from the bookstore.”

She let out a giggle. Sherlock felt a bit odd. Was she laughing at him?

“Oh, yes, I just didn’t think you’d remember.”

He scratched his neck, unsure of what to do. He wished he had the patience to read the chapter of his book on first impressions, but he felt very drained after reading so much about human interaction. It wasn’t too much for him by any means, he just felt frustrated because he knew these sorts of things came ‘naturally’ to many people. And he did not like feeling dumb. 

“Are you having trouble with your locker?” She asked quickly, as if it had been something difficult to say. 

“Actually, yes, a bit.” Sherlock replied, relieved, but still nervous as to what she was going to do. Was she about to mock him? 

“It’s ok,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “I know a pretty good trick. I had trouble with mine, too, at first.”

He stepped aside so she could reach his locker, and Molly just pushed in, put in the password, then pushed out. The door fell open. She turned to him with a small smile and said:

“I know being the new guy is tough, but there are some pretty cool people in this school.” She looked flustered. “My friends and I could show you around.”

He felt a little shocked. He’d thought that by blending in, no one would want to bully him, but also that no one would want to _befriend_ him. He didn’t know what to say. He was scared that he’d slip up and then this group of people would hate him. And then the whole school would, too. 

“Thank you.” He said, not sure if he was referring to the locker situation or the invitation to be ‘shown around’. 

She could probably sense that he felt awkward, because she just put on a small smile and told him to find her at lunch. 

He didn’t know what to do. He spent the day in a light panic, unsure of what to do. What were her motives? What could she possibly want with him? How could he possibly reject her offer? “Yes, I’m deeply sorry, Molly, thank you for the offer, but I don’t actually want any friends. I thrive alone, like a bear, whilst you sound like a whale or wolf or any number of animals that live in packs. So, not compatible. Doo-de-lee-doo!” 

He wanted to give it a shot, maybe, but he had no idea how to interact positively with people. He’d never really been close to his peers, and even his most civil relationships (like his with Professor Sherry) were complicated or one-sided. He stuttered in thinking he’d never really had a friend.

And while he wanted to experience that, he was sure that he just wasn’t made for it. 

Maybe he could try. He clenched his hands underneath the table, aware that he’d given up trying for very valid reasons. Namely, the undying frustration of always coming short of succeeding. The way that people didn’t care. The way that people didn’t try with him. But he wanted to try again. 

It just felt like leaping off of a tall building. Did he have the guts to do it? 

Molly seemed like she would try. But she didn’t really know him. Maybe he could go to lunch with her group of friends and just stay silent. That way, they wouldn’t really get to know him, and so hate him, and he wouldn’t have to reject her offer. Perfect!

And so, at lunch, he took the sandwich and apple his mother had packed for him to the cafeteria. He had up to then been having lunch in the courtyard, but he had seen the cafeteria. It was crowded and loud – two things he didn’t appreciate. It was like a data overload. 

He scanned the room, trying his best to block out the things his brain was trying to decipher without his permission. Molly was sitting down with four other people: a boy who looked so stressed and hyped on caffeine he could have a heart attack at any minute, a chubby smiling boy, a very well-dressed girl with dark hair pulled back and… John from the bookstore. 

That almost made him bolt. Would the boy remember him and his awkward weirdness?

He didn’t really have time to decide, as he had gathered up quite a bit of attention just standing in the middle of the cafeteria without doing anything, and Molly spotted him. She smiled and waved him over as the group she was with turned their heads to inspect him.

He was wide eyed and motionless. Then, he lurched forward towards their table, almost tripping over. 

“Hi,” he said, brilliantly. 

There was a chorus of half-hearted ‘hellos’. 

“Guys, this is Scott. He’s new.” Molly said brightly. 

Sherlock smiled sheepishly. He was still getting used to being called ‘Scott’. Molly scooted over for him to sit down, and he did. In front of John, who thankfully didn’t seem to remember him.

“Hey, Scott, I’m Mike. Are you… enjoying the school so far?” The chubby boy asked. He had quite an annoying high pitched voice. 

Sherlock tried to stop himself from reading too much into him. He should learn to control his deductions a bit more, he thought absent-mindedly.

“Oh, yes,” he said. And when he realized he needed to speak a bit more, he added, “It’s much better than my last school.”

They fell into an awkward silence. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. Then, Molly spoke nervously:

“Well, so that’s Mike, this is Greg,” she said, pointing to the stressed teen garbling up his lunch, “this is John,” she said, pointing at John, who waved unenthusiastically, “and this is Irene,” she finished up, pointing at the sharp girl, who gazed at him intensely.

“Yes, Scott, I’m sorry about the awkwardness, Molly did not warn us she was bringing in a stray… _yet again_.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to that, as everyone turned to her admonishingly, but he felt a bit offended. He wasn’t a stray. He felt John’s eyes on him in an expression he couldn’t understand and started to sweat. 

“Irene!” Molly whisper-shouted.

“What? It’s true. You’re her charity case for now.”

Sherlock flushed, embarrassed he hadn’t grasped Molly’s motivations. Did he seem like he needed help? He hated human interactions more than anything. He shouldn’t have come. 

“Come on, Irene, that was unnecessary,” said Greg, with a rather raspy voice. Smoker, then. 

“Oh, man up, Greg, we had this talk after Tom and we told Molly to stop bringing in these people in, didn’t we?”

Molly turned a very bright red very fast. Sherlock was almost shaking. It had happened again. He hadn’t even done anything and he was already being shunned. He was a part of a _’these people’_. 

An insult stood on the tip of his tongue. His eyes narrowed, his mind shooting off deductions. Ammunition. He almost told Irene off. 

Something made him stop, though. He took a deep breath and stood up. It would do him no good to give Irene a reason not to like him. He had to remain neutral. Unnoticed. He tried not to look at John, who was still staring at him with that weird expression on his face. He should’ve known he didn’t stand a chance with a guy like that. 

So he just said, “Sorry,” through his teeth and left the cafeteria walking as fast as he could with his long legs without sprinting. 

He ended up skipping the meal and heading straight to his next class. The classroom was almost empty. There was a boy sitting inside, rolling up a joint. Sherlock had never seen one before. 

“Hey, new guy!” The boy called out, suddenly aware of Sherlock’s presence. His eyes were red and puffy. He was obviously high. “Want some?”

Sherlock looked at the joint in distrust. He’d never really clouded his brain with anything. He needed to be able to control it. It was too potent. He just shook his head.

“Okay.” The boy said, a little spaced out. “But don’t go telling anyone, okay?”

“Sure.” Sherlock answered.

He just sat down in his usual seat while the students piled in. The boy eventually finished preparing it and hid the joint in his backpack. Sherlock was surprised when Mike walked into the classroom. He hadn’t specifically noticed him before, but they probably shared this class. 

The boy looked around and his eyes landed on Sherlock. Alarmingly, he walked over and sat down on the desk next to Sherlock’s. 

“Hey, I’m sorry about Irene. Sometimes she just acts like that, I don’t really know why,” Sherlock tried to stop his brain from searching for the answer, cracking the puzzle. “She can be a little blunt, but she’s actually a cool person.”

Sherlock nodded along, looking at his desk. 

“I just mean that if you wanted to have lunch with us tomorrow, we’d like that.”

Sherlock looked up in surprise. Did he want that? 

He knew the answer before it left his lips, uncaring of his own instincts. Distantly, he heard Mycroft’s voice, telling him that caring was a disadvantage, but he just put it inside a file and locked it in a drawer. In a room. In a tower. In a castle.

“Thanks.”


	9. Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was Sherlock to this new group of people? 
> 
> He talks to his mother and brother about it. Their opinions differ, to say the least. 
> 
> Additionally, is Sherlock a saucy lad?

On Tuesday, he came to school wearing his yellow hoodie again. It just made him feel warm, and he liked the way it appeared to shield him from everything. He was wearing it with normal jeans and his nicest all-stars (the only ones who weren’t damaged by either time, experiments with acid or mud from the collection of samples). 

He stood outside the cafeteria this time. He could do it. He just had to be quiet, but not that quiet. Maybe if he asked questions about the other people. He’d keep it as a last resort. He didn’t want to say anything ‘insensitive’. 

He walked up to the table and both Mike and Molly waved at him. Greg opened a small smile, before opening his brown bag voraciously. John was still a bit distant, playing with some stray foil Sherlock assumed had contained food at some point. 

Irene was scowling, clearly having lost the argument for Sherlock’s presence. She had her arms crossed in front of her chest and wore a long-sleeved black shirt.

“Hello,” he said, more smoothly than he thought he could.

“Hey, Scott!” Molly said with a smile, scooting over for Sherlock, who once again sat down. “Thanks for coming back. Irene wanted to apologize.”

Sherlock turned to Irene, fully aware that she had to have been forced by her friends. Everyone turned to look at her as well. She still had her arms crossed and a closed off expression. 

She took a look at Molly, who was staring at her hopefully and sighed.

“I’m sorry, Scott. I was rude.”

That seemed to bring a smile to Molly’s face. Everyone then turned to him.

“Oh, um, it’s fine. Out of all the names I’ve been called, ‘stray’ actually feels one of the more creative ones.” He giggled. 

It was meant to be a humorous remark, but none of them laughed. Molly frowned and John looked up from his foil to give him an inquisitive look. Sherlock felt the air stop going to his lungs. He’d said something wrong. 

“Was that rude?” He asked sincerely. 

There was a moment of silence, in which Sherlock felt terrified. All of a sudden, Irene snorted, and then let out a laugh. John joined in with an amused smile and so did Greg. Mike and Molly seemed pleasantly surprised. 

“ _We_ are going to get along great, Scott,” Irene said.

Sherlock smiled, unsure if what he’d done was actually okay or not, but happy that the group had enjoyed it. He found himself having lunch with those people every day. His presence seemed to be less and less new to them as time went by, and he began to learn more about each one of them.

By talking to them. It was fairly new to Sherlock. 

He leaned that Mike wanted to be a doctor, just like his dad had been, that Molly liked to knit all kinds of sweaters, blankets and little animals (like his bee), that Greg was struggling with school because he was captain of the rugby team and had very little time to study anything else other than strategy, that Irene, despite seeming cold and distant, quite enjoyed painting her nails every week or so a different color, and also that John enjoyed reading, though he could find little time for it as he was also in the rugby team, hence the job at the small bookstore.

When Sherlock finally sat down with his mother for tea on the weekend, he told her every single detail he’d gathered from each of his new friends. 

From what he’d pieced together and understood from Molly, who enjoyed walking with him to class most days, Greg and Mike had seemingly always been friends, having come from the same primary school, John and Greg had met through rugby and Molly had been friends with Greg when they were smaller and had rekindled their friendship after John had a crush on one of Molly’s friends, Joanne. Irene was a more recent addition to the group. From what Sherlock could tell, Molly was the one person who was really close to Irene, while the latter didn’t seem to have much intimacy with the boys. They’d probably met in a similar fashion to him and Molly. 

His mother was a very caring listener. She heard all he had to say with a small smile and a twinkle to her eyes, and he was finished, she asked him in a low, hopeful voice, how they treated him.

Sherlock was a little taken aback, but he recovered quickly and spoke with the same gusto he’d been exuding since he’d met them all. 

“Molly’s very friendly,” he started. “She tells me the context for things even when I don’t ask for it and seems to always be around, waiting to lend a helping hand.”

“Sounds like she likes you.”

Sherlock smiled. 

“She’s very nice.”

His mother looked at him with a strange look. Then, she motioned for him to continue.

“Mike is also very nice, although he is a bit clumsier and disorganized. He’s always cracking a joke or other. Greg is more reserved, but he’s very devoted to the things he commits to. Apparently, Irene once challenged him to eat all of the leftover meatloaf, which is terrible, and he missed his next class to finish it!” His mother giggled, and took a sip of her tea. “Now, Irene keeps to herself most of the time, but she can’t resist the occasional witty or biting remark. Everyone seems to think she’s a little crass, but they enjoy her company nonetheless.”

“And John?”

Sherlock blushed and masked it with a sip of tea. 

“He’s nice. He cares a lot about everyone. He even carries around a box of band aids. He’s recently had a break up, though, so I can’t really tell if he’s usually so frustrated and down-on-his-luck. I assume not.”

His mother nodded and stood up to pour herself another cup. 

“He likes reading. He’s halfway through _The Karamazov Brothers_.”

“Oh!” His mother exclaimed excitedly. “That was one of your favorites, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock nodded, smiling. 

“You should talk to him about it.”

Sherlock had thought about many ways he could talk, but he was reluctant. What he had was nice. He liked listening to their conversations without really partaking in them. It felt…cozy. He was scared of making a mistake and ruining this little piece of _something_ he’d found for himself. 

So, he just stayed quiet. And, whenever asked a question, he’d answer in the vaguest, shortest way possible. 

Mike’s “Do you like yellow?” _It’s my favorite color_ “Yes.”

Molly’s “What do you want to be when you grow up?” _A pirate_ “Something exciting.”

Irene’s “Why did you transfer anyway?” _I was dying at my last school and there was nothing I could do about it. Everyone hated me, even if they liked me, and I felt completely unwanted_ “I just wanted some change.”

Greg’s “Any good at chemistry?” _The absolute best. I could be teaching our class and do a better job than that professor_ “Sure.”

And John’s “Have you ever kissed a girl?”, to which everyone craned their necks in excitement, awaiting the answer. Sherlock blushed. _I’ve kissed a few boys_ “No.”

Everyone seemed to be shocked by that in some capacity, but thinking of him as the shy guy who rarely shared anything, no one dared to question him further, except for Irene.

“No way. There’s literally no way. Have you looked in a mirror? Ever?”

Sherlock could feel his blush deepening. The rest of the group seemed amused by the way Irene had phrased it. Obviously he wasn’t that attractive. He just chuckled and hoped they’d move on with the subject. Thankfully, they did.

So, overall, he was doing a great job. 

A small part of him, unravelling like a snail, wanted to do more. Say more, share more. Ironically, he’d never really listened to people talk so much, even though he knew how to figure them out with observation and deduction. 

He now wanted to share more, finally. Words could be deceiving, sure, but they were nicer. More open. If he could talk to them, everything would be perfect. But what if they didn’t like him?

The first time they’d invited him to a day out on the town, he said he couldn’t go because it was his brother’s birthday. Of course, it was true, but he would be thrilled to have an excuse to miss it. 

Mycroft, of course, had big opinions on his new friendships. Sherlock could tell by the purse of his lips and calculating gaze, but he was completely thrown off by the fact that his brother didn’t mention the situation until he was about to leave. 

“Be careful, Sherlock.”

He stared at him, wide-eyed, his tongue heavy in his mouth, about to set off a scathing remark, an “I am,” or a “You have no friends, how could you know what to do?”. But he didn’t say those things. 

“Okay.”

Mycroft seemed surprised too. He was still looking at Sherlock with concern, though.

“Good luck, brother mine.”

So, the next time they invited him out, he said yes.

They were going to hang out by the small square in front of the bookstore. Apparently, they had the best coffee in town, and the diner out front had a great milkshake. 

Sherlock, with all his nerves, arrived a bit early and hung out around the store waiting for Molly and John’s shift to end. He used the word “hung out”, but he actually meant “stood around awkwardly and with his head hung low”. He felt out of place in his long sleeved blue shirt and black jeans. He’d decided to wear his overcoat for the night. 

The manager, an old woman named Judy, was very warm and welcoming towards him, and let John and Molly leave early so he didn’t have to stand around so weirdly. She even pinched his cheek and called him a “handsome young man”, telling him to “behave like a good boy like John here”. 

John laughed heartily. He wasn’t so upset about the breakup anymore, and Sherlock was getting to see a new side of him. 

As they were walking out, Molly leaving her uniform behind, Sherlock grew the courage to say something to John. Mycroft’s words floated around between his ears. 

“I really like _The Karamazov Brothers_ , it’s one of my favorite books.”

John smiled at him, surprised, and the sight took Sherlock’s breath away. He just looked so genuine. His eyes were filled with mirth and his smile filled his gentle face.

“I’m surprised. You don’t seem to be type.” Sherlock must’ve looked as puzzled as he felt. “Oh, just because you seem to like science and all…”

“I do,” said Sherlock. “But I also like most Russian literature. It’s poignant and strong.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it. Sorry, I just though you wouldn’t like something so ruthless.”

“Why? I like many ruthless things.”

John staggered, looking at him with wide eyes and smirking.

“Scott, are you telling me that underneath that shy boy in a hoodie there’s a saucy lad?” 

Sherlock blushed and looked down at his feet. John looked at him with fondness. Sherlock almost died with the feeling of it. He chuckled.

“Maybe.”

John was looking into his eyes, smile still in place. They stood there in silence for a moment, until Molly walked out and led them to the meeting point excitedly. 

She ran ahead to greet Irene, who was sitting down on a square bench, examining her nails carefully. She looked poised. 

That was when John turned to him again, walking leisurely behind Molly.

“I shouldn’t be surprised about the Russian literature.” Sherlock turned to him curiously. “It’s not just ruthless, it’s calm, collected and precise. Like you.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open, and the words left his lips with such a speed he couldn’t even think of keeping them inside.

“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

John laughed. Sherlock really liked that sound. He smiled. 

“Come on, Scott,” he said, guiding Sherlock to the bench with a friendly hand between his shoulder blades. 

It was going to be a good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey-o! Still trying to update as often as I can!! Might update more frequently as we enter the week of Christmas :) Happy festivities! Tell me if you enjoy this chapter, please. Love, Bee <3


	10. Scottie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock slips through the cracks of Scott. 
> 
> What will the group think? What will John think?

For the most part, it was nice. Sherlock could feel John’s presence around him all night, hyper aware of their shoulders or knees touching as they sat down and ate at the diner. The milkshake was actually the greatest Sherlock has ever tasted. 

When it arrived, all of them made a show of waiting for his reaction to his first sip, which made him feel embarrassed, but as soon as he tasted that beautiful concoction, he let out an unearthly sound completely out of his control. 

Everyone laughed as he turned red from his cheeks down to his neck, and Greg told him that it was the final test he had to pass so that he could officially become their friend, to which Sherlock responded “There were other tests?” nervously. 

He enjoyed the food and the constant flow of conversation and jokes and light-heartedness was intoxicating. He felt elated. He’d never felt so comfortable around a group of people. His mum, for sure. But he wasn’t sure anyone else made it to the list. And he couldn’t remember ever just having purposeless fun.

It seemed like they were getting along great until night fell and they sat together on the chess tables just outside the diner, on the square. It was cold and so they huddled together. Irene ran her finger through the board pensively before inching closer to Molly. Greg also looked at the board with familiarity, and Sherlock wondered if he played because he planned the strategies for the rugby team or if he became captain because he had the habit of playing chess. They could play sometime…

Mike was telling a story about the time his aunt had accidentally set her own hair on fire and Sherlock was listening while observing the empty chessboard. Just then, however, a couple of girls their age walked past them and John muttered a hurried _“Oh shit”_ before jumping down to hide between their tables. 

Sherlock asked Molly, who was sitting by his side, what was happening. She just shushed him. He hated when he was left out of the loop. So he just turned to John and, for a brief moment, stopped ignoring the constant flow of observations.

He had his lips closed together tightly and it looked like his mood was dampened by the situation. He was breathing faster than normal, which meant elevated heart rate. It wasn’t a difficult leap. That was the girl who’d broken up with him just a couple of weeks prior.

The group had fallen silent as they listened to what they were saying. One of them was talking loudly about a boy. Presumably, that boy was John, though Sherlock found it hard to make a connection between what she was saying and the boy he’d become friends with.

“He was just so weird. He never had time for me, he was always either at his dumb rugby practice with his mates or just reading. Have you ever dated a guy who wanted to read more than he wanted to hang out with you? He never even took me on dates, he just wanted to walk around after school and watch movies, like, that’s so boring. He was such a loser, I don’t even – can I help you, weirdo?”

Sherlock was very angry. Why was she talking about John, one of the sweetest people he’d ever met, like he was an awful person? Like he was a loser? He wasn’t like Sherlock. He was actually a good person. 

Sherlock felt his blood rushing through his ears, beating rhythmically like it was his very heart, outraged. He had somehow walked up to her and was standing right in front of the girl. He couldn’t help the words that just slipped out of his mouth.

“He’s not weird. And you’re the loser for breaking up with him. I suspect you didn’t like his reading because you yourself couldn’t keep up. You look like the main character of Legally Blonde, so it’s no surprise, you even have a Chihuahua if I’m not mistaken. Also, I can see you’ve been shopping at jewelry stores such as Claire’s and clothing lines like Forever twenty-one. That plus the hair extensions and acrylic nails in the awful choice of color that is neon green contribute to the image of a shallow, vain, attention-seeking fake person who should be grateful of being around someone as genuine as John Watson. Overall, it’s not a huge surprise that he didn’t want to hang out with you, especially since you don’t hold any respect for the things he liked. Seems to me like you’re a self-centered individual, who doesn’t even pay attention to her friends – look at the red haired one, obviously cold while you hold your brand coat out like a trophy – and who didn’t deserve him in the first place.”

Her eyes and her friends’ were wide in outrage and her hand came up to her shocked open mouth. He rolled his eyes at the action.

“Put your hand away, darling, this isn’t Beverly Hills.” 

“Freak!” She yelled in his face, eyes scrunched up in anger. 

“Unoriginal,” he snapped back. “And predictable.”

They walked away hastily, yelling out some other bad names. He just scoffed and stuffed his hands in his pockets. As the flood of adrenalin rushed through him, the heavy settling of fear came back down to sit on his chest, and he slowly tuned to the tables from which all his “friends” were watching. 

He burrowed further into his overcoat. They had surprised looks on their faces, and Irene had a huge smile plastered on hers. Sherlock felt sick. Greg let out an outrageous laugh, followed by Mike. Tears might’ve sprung in Sherlock’s eyes. He wanted to run, but his legs felt like lead. His stomach felt empty. He was looking at John, whose expression he couldn’t figure out. 

“Scott, mate, you’ve been holding out on us!” Greg rasped out. 

Molly giggled. 

“Shy Scott is no more! Sassy Scott is born! Are you one of those quiet guys who’s secretly a badass?”

Sherlock let out a small smile. He couldn’t even process what was happening. 

“I knew we were going to get along well,” Irene drawled out.

John finally snapped out of his trance, shaking his head in disbelief.

“How did you know she had a Chihuahua?”

The rest of the group quieted down to hear the answer.

“Well, I – I just observed. There was a small dog’s fur on shoes, and the Chihuahua is the smallest breed of dog.” John raised his eyebrows. “Also, there was a picture of one on her phone case and she looked, well...”

The group fell into laughter once more, looking astounded. Greg stood up to pat him on the back and Irene nodded her head at him in acknowledgement. 

“Brilliant.” John smiled at him and rested his hand on his upper back again, then it slid up to hold the back of his neck. Sherlock felt warm inside. “Let’s take him to Aron’s! Scottie, I’m going to buy you a pint.”

Sherlock smiled widely. There was an amazing feeling growing in his chest that he couldn’t repress. He had never felt more content. Bracketed by Greg and John, he felt safer and more accepted than he’d ever felt.

They did end up going to Aron’s, but Sherlock soon learned it wasn’t a bar, but a small Syrian restaurant. John sat down next to him the entire time, and it seemed as though there were a cloud of excitement and amusement in the air. 

They didn’t drink; nobody was brave enough to try and fool the owner, a big burly Syrian man who laughed loudly in the background, smiling widely, but who still somehow managed to keep the kitchen in order with a stern grip. 

“One day one we’re gonna do it,” Greg said, sipping his Diet Coke. 

Mike gave him an incredulous look and snorted. 

“Yeah, mate, I’d like to see you try,” John quipped. 

Irene rolled her eyes and turned to Molly, whispering _boys…_ exasperatedly. 

“I bet Scott would do it,” responded Molly, her signature thin-lipped smile wider than ever. 

Sherlock blushed and looked down, as Greg and John (one on each side) cheered loudly and clapped him on the back.

“We’ll see,” Sherlock said, unable to contain his grin. 

Soon after that, Irene yawned loudly and complained it was getting too late, and even though it wasn’t a school night, she was tired. 

That prompted everyone to start packing up their things, and John took out his beat up wallet along with everyone else, but as soon as Sherlock got his own plain black one out, John slapped his hand.

Sherlock inadvertently made a small sound of shock. John smiled at him with those big eyes for a second, his lips a little open. Then, he licked his lips and chuckled. 

“I’m not letting you pay. It’s not a pint, but I’ll get your falafel.”

“You don’t need to, I –” Sherlock said quickly. 

“Scottie.” He said with finality, raising one of his eyebrows. “Let me.”

Sherlock blushed. He caught Irene staring at the exchange from the corner of her eyes, while everyone looked at the bill, trying to divide it up evenly. 

“Thanks,” Sherlock whispered, looking at John, whose pointed jaw was turned to him, his short hair barely falling over his eyes… military cut. 

Sherlock swallowed around nothing, trying to maintain control of his observations. 

John insisted on walking Sherlock home. The latter’s body was tingly and tense from being around people all night. Mostly John. So he was a little thrown off. Sherlock still felt very nervous about saying the wrong thing, even though the incident that afternoon had left him feeling more sure and confident. 

They walked along the stone road, lit like a nineties movie by the yellow-tinted streetlamps. Sherlock stayed silent and tried to control his breathing. He shoved his hands into his pockets and his face into the collar of his overcoat. 

“What you did,” John cleared his throat. “with Sarah back there… It was really nice. Thank you.”

Sherlock looked at him with complete shock painting all of his features. 

“Wasn’t it rude?” He asked seriously. 

John laughed, and Sherlock figured that his heart was going to stop and get larger with every single time he listened to the sound. John scratched the back of his neck and looked at Sherlock while they walked.

“Why did you do it then?”

Sherlock’s heart stilled. The words _because I’m a sociopath_ floated around his head, but he didn’t dare to utter them. 

“She was being mean to you. Well, saying mean things about you.”

John smiled at him so brightly Sherlock even panicked a little bit. When had he come to deserve such a gaze?

“Well,” he paused. “It was a nice thing to do _for me_. You didn’t have to do it.”

“I wanted to,” Sherlock responded immediately.

They walked a bit more in silence. It felt nice, but Sherlock still felt the light cloak the night had donned, a euphoric feeling of companionship. He was scared of it.

They slowed down as they reached the fence for Sherlock’s house. He felt a bit embarrassed. No one had ever walked him home, and he didn’t really know how the exchange was to end. 

John just stopped walking, and Sherlock turned to look at him, both leaning on the fence. The other boy sighed heavily and stared at Sherlock with a look akin to wonder. 

“Scott…you’re brilliant, you know that?”

Sherlock blushed and nodded, looking at the ground sheepishly. 

“Because…I don’t think you know.” 

Sherlock also didn’t know how to answer to that, so he just looked at John, chewing through his lip nervously.

John leaned on one of his feet, his body leaning towards Sherlock. They stood like that for a second. Sherlock’s skin felt hot beneath his clothes and the chilly weather. His blood pumped strongly and he heard it run through his ears.

“Goodnight,” John nearly whispered, and Sherlock shuddered to feel his breath on his cheek.

“Goodnight,” he sighed. 

They kept looking at each other’s eyes for a few more moments, but then John turned away and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys!! As a Christmas treat to everyone with a shitty home life (and/or just want some distraction during these trying times), I will be posting a chapter everyday leading up to the big day!! Stay safe. Love, Bee :)


	11. Mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is really good at chess. Maybe he should've said so.

He didn’t tell his mother. Or Mycroft. Or anyone. He kept it to himself like a precious little secret. He didn’t even know what to think about what had happened. 

He’d shown himself and his friends had liked it. John had liked it. Just thinking about their walk home made his stomach flutter and his heart swell. 

He mulled over what he should do the whole weekend. How should he act? What should he do? He thought that he could maybe just try to act nice. Try not to act rude. When he’d lost control on Friday, his friends hadn’t wavered. He just felt warm. 

On Monday, he wore his yellow hoodie again and Molly brought him a Tupperware full of lasagna. She gave it to him as they walked towards their usual table. 

“Oh… thank you. But, sorry, um, why?”

Her smile faltered for one second, but then she just giggled shyly and Sherlock heard Irene scoff behind him. 

“Oh, I just noticed you don’t usually eat a lot at lunch and my mum makes a great lasagna. So I asked her to pack you some of our leftovers from Sunday.”

Sherlock was touched. He smiled. 

“I usually find that eating slows down the mind, but… thank you.”

She gave him a quizzical look and he carefully put it away in his backpack. They say down. Irene made a show of sitting down between Molly and Sherlock, who was in front of Greg. 

Greg, who was apparently freaking out because the school’s chess club was going to have its first competition on the next week and they were one person short of being able to enter. 

“It’s so frustrating. We don’t _need_ another player, why does there have to be a substitute? Who’s going to get injured playing _chess_?”

Irene rolled her eyes. 

“Donovan probably could. She’s so dumb she hasn’t even gotten the fourth chapter openings memorized yet,” she said, irritated. 

“And you got pulverized by this school last year, too, innit?”

“Thank you, Mike. Yes, we did. Those private school ponces,” Greg growled. 

John, who was sitting beside Greg, suddenly sat straighter and stared right at Sherlock, who immediately blushed. 

“Can’t Scott play?” Greg instantly turned to Sherlock with a wide smile the boy had never seen on the other’s face. “He’s new at school, so he can just enter instead of waiting one year to do it. It’s perfect.”

“Oh, yes! John, you’re amazing. _Please_ , mate, you won’t even need to play!”

Sherlock was surprisingly interested. He usually found chess to be boring, but only because he had so easily memorized most strategies when he was smaller and played with his brother. He did like competition, and it seemed like it would make Greg really happy. 

“Sure, I’d be glad to do it.” He smiled. Greg seemed like he was ready to burst with happiness. 

“Wonderful,” Irene said pointedly. “You have to go through classifiers, though, like everyone on the club.”

“Okay. When?”

She narrowed her eyes. 

Classifiers, as Greg explained as he struggled to hold all of his materials, were matches the club played (almost a small tournament) to determine which players were going to play with the other club’s members.

“Basically,” he started, “it’s a rating of the players. So the one who wins all their matches is the best, and they’ll play the other team’s best player. So on, so forth. And the worst player gets to be the substitute. That’s probably going to be you, since you’ve never been a part of the club. So, if anyone’s unable to play, you’ll step in.”

They stopped at Greg’s locker, which almost dumped out all his papers on him as soon as he opened it. 

“Why do you do all these things?” Sherlock asked curiously, holding the mountain of paper to help Greg organize his things. 

“Huh?” Greg responded, as he struggled to find his Physics textbook. 

“Well, you seem very stressed. On top of classes, you’re the rugby captain and you’re on the chess club.”

“Well, I like doing those things. I just hate chemistry,” he said, closing the locker door with his back, “and _math_.”

“Well, I could help if you want, I’m quite good at those.”

“Really?” He turned to Sherlock with wide eyes. “Mate, you are a god! Thank you!”

Sherlock just smiled, glad to be of help. Greg explained to him that they used to have collective study sessions, but they stopped when it started to be more of a nuisance. And because no one understood school anymore.

They had finals week in about a month, so they could set up a study session in three weeks. Or at least that was how Irene phrased it when Greg told everyone about the idea, and everyone turned to her with outraged glances. Except for Sherlock, who asked ‘Why so early?’

John snorted and Greg let out some raspy laughter. Molly blushed, strangely enough, and Irene scowled. 

Classifiers were on the next day. The only people Sherlock knew on the club were Greg and Irene, but there were ten other people already waiting inside the classroom when he got there. 

Everyone stood awkwardly around the room until it was three o’ clock and the instructor walked in, and Sherlock realized it was Prof. Wilson, their Advanced Algebra teacher. Since the first day of class he’d been consistently sitting in the back of the class, begging her not to call on him with his eyes. 

Thankfully, she had barely noticed him after that first day. He figured the subject she taught wasn’t that difficult for everyone, so maybe a correct answer wasn’t so far out that she’d seek him out like they were in _Good Will Hunting_.

“Hello, everybody! As you all know, this my favorite day of the year. And now, the reason: I get to make all of you stand in between these tables and wonder how good you are while staring at your classmates. Oh, I love chess.”

Most of the people in the room laughed nervously at that. Sherlock smiled, amused. Prof. Wilson was one of the few teachers he liked, and whom he didn’t want to murder for adding their sense of humor to their classes.

“I know I’m a psychopath,” she said, while she put her briefcase down on the table in the middle of the room. “My husband tells me that every day.”

There was another round of nervous laughter around the room, and Sherlock smiled widely. He wasn’t sure if she was speaking genuinely. He understood the structure of the joke, but he wondered if it was true anyway. It would be nice. 

He wanted to go ask her about it, perhaps after classifiers, but he wasn’t sure about how positively he felt about having a private conversation with a professor after Prof. Sherry. Dan. Whom he hadn’t called yet. For no specific reason. 

He didn’t like how many things the man knew about him. The vulnerable parts of him.

“Professor, we have the most wonderful news!” Irene said, her face stretched into a weird smile. “We found someone to be the substitute at our first competition this year.”

Prof. Wilson turned to Sherlock, who straightened his back for some reason. Most of the club was looking at him indifferently. Greg smiled at him encouragingly. She looked pleased. 

“What’s your name?”

“Scott Holmes, ma’am,” Sherlock blurted out nervously, never having called anyone ma’am non-ironically in his life. 

Prof. Wilson nodded leaned on her desk and tapped her foot.

“Have you ever played chess?”

Greg let out a nervous sound that could’ve been interpreted as a laugh and Irene stepped in.

“Well, he won’t need to, he’ll just be the substitute. He’s new here, so…”

“Well, Irene, he’ll only be the substitute if he places lowest today, so let’s see.”

She took her teacher’s notebook out of her briefcase, walked up to the blackboard and wrote everyone into pairs except for Sherlock, whose name she wrote at the bottom. 

“So, everyone, take a look at your opponent and sit down. First to win gets to play the newbie as a treat.”

Sherlock felt that it was kind of mean to say that, and many people gave him smug looks as they sat down. Apparently it was fun to win against people who had no experience. Or so they thought. 

Sherlock was a little nervous as he watched everyone play, especially since some people kept side-eyeing him, plausibly glowing with the thought of an easy win. Irene was one of them. He was nervous because he knew he was better at chess than he should be, and maybe it wasn’t wise to stand out like that.

But at the same time, he missed the high of saying something smart and having the people around him gape. When he’d verbally murdered John’s ex-girlfriend at the square, he’d felt it again, the wonderful power of having the right words, stringing them together, showing them off. 

He missed it too much to let those smug bastards win a single match against him. 

Prof. Wilson was surveying the tables, and, unconsciously, Sherlock found himself doing the same. The silence that fell over the room was very refreshing, broken only by the heavy murmur of the chess pieces against the board.

Irene was very good. Her opponent was a tall guy with glasses who was sweating a lot, and Sherlock could bet that she could win with her gaze alone. The professor also seemed most invested in that game, and he wondered if those were the best players in the club. 

Neither of them were the first to win, though, as Sherlock heard a girl’s strong voice proclaim ‘check’ after a few minutes. The loser, the one named Donovan, cursed and got up angrily, as Prof. Wilson pulled her aside and explained what she’d done wrong. The professor really did have a keen eye. 

“Your turn, Scott,” she said, pointing at the free chair. Sherlock heard some groaning around the room. 

He sat down in front of the girl. She was smiling widely and her eyes were slightly narrowed. She was short and had brown curly hair. 

“I’m Aliyah,” she said slowly, as if she though he wouldn’t understand. He almost introduced himself as Sherlock afterwards, just for fun. 

“I’m Scott.”

She smiled as though she felt guilty. 

“I’ll let you play white, okay?”

He nodded, starting to feel a little guilty himself over enjoying the interaction so much. It just promised a sweet ending with the twist of revenge. He really felt like Aliyah had wronged him. Maybe he’d just missed showing off. 

He said ‘check’ after five moves. 

Aliyah looked down at the chessboard with her eyebrows furrowed. 

“No, it’s not!”

“Yes, it is,” rung Prof. Wilson’s voice. She was looking at the chessboard with intrigue.

Then, she turned to Sherlock and smiled. 

“I guess you won’t be the substitute. Aliyah, go play Henry. He just lost to Irene. I’ll be there in a second to explain how you could’ve defended yourself.”

Aliyah looked angry and outraged. She stood up with a huff and walked over to the table where a feeble-looking boy was looking quite disappointed. Irene was already sitting down with a brown-haired stuffy person wearing a blazer. She looked over without smiling.

Prof. Wilson leaned in to talk to him. 

“Good job, Scott. I think you’ll be a nice addition to the club. Were you in your last school’s chess club?” Sherlock shook his head negatively. “Oh. Okay. Well, you should think about signing up permanently.”

She smiled and sent him off to play with a bulky blonde. 

Sherlock won every single match he played that day. Each person he played against seemed confident that they were going to win, but as he climbed up the ladder of winners, they started to look at him with apprehension and maybe a bit of admiration. 

He felt Irene’s eyes on his back the whole time. She was the last person he played. It was the longest game of the afternoon, but still short for a chess game. Her gaze did not waver once during the entirety of the game and so he maintained the same level of eye contact. He won after fifteen moves. She clenched her jaw and stood up without saying anything. Some people in the club smiled at her.

“Yeah!” Greg exclaimed as they left the classroom. “I’m thinking we’ve actually got a shot this year.”

Irene grunted, looking displeased at the ground. 

“I really don’t want those posh Queen Mary boys to win again,” Greg smiled. 

Sherlock’s heart stopped beating for one full second. Queen Mary?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of this madness! I want to send a special thanks to my best friend Lila who stayed with me on the phone coming up with this chess based storyline! Love you, hon :) Bee <3


	12. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene is not happy with Sherlock. 
> 
> Because of Classifiers.

He couldn’t back down from the competition when it was looming ahead only one week away. Even if he could, though, he couldn’t disappoint Greg and Irene when he still felt they were warming up to him. 

But how could he pretend that Queen Mary wasn’t his last school? Even if he didn’t personally know the boys in the chess club, he used to have quite the reputation, so it was more than likely that they’d know him.

And they hated him. Fear trickled up his spine to think of the people who has tormented him meeting the people who could one day be his… friends. He found it hard to even think of that possibility, though, because every time he did, he was reminded of the unlikeable person he was. 

It was just taking a bit longer for them to find out. 

He replayed in his head the night that John walked him home and the words he’d said… “ _you’re brilliant, you know that? Because… I don’t think you know_ ”

The warm glow he’d felt at the words dimmed. 

He knew he was smart. He just knew also that the fact wasn’t enough to make him likeable. Intimately. Or good. Or… _nice_. 

When they sat down for lunch for the entirety of next week, he retracted to the quiet person he’d pretended to be for his first few weeks at the new school. 

For the most part, he just looked at John and felt sad. He was a very nice person, and Sherlock would miss him most of all. His laugh, his steady presence. He just wished he had more of him, selfishly. John just had this quality that made Sherlock want to be around him. 

He’d also miss Greg, who’d been very helpful to him and very warm. As had Molly, whose lasagna his mother adored. They were all just so kind. 

He didn’t know what to think of Irene, who seemed to like him half the time, when he didn’t hold back, but also seemed to resent him some. Maybe it had to do with the thing she’d said to him when they’d first met. He was just a stray Molly had brought in. A charity case. He supposed she was right, but it didn’t feel good to hear it anyway. 

John asked how classifiers had gone. He was looking at Sherlock, eyes safe and inquisitive. Sherlock’s heart screamed. That was a new feeling. 

Irene jumped in to answer, thankfully.

“Turns out Scottie here is a chess prodigy.” She seemed scornful. “He got number one at classifiers.”

Molly turned to him, surprised.

“Congratulations!”

“Yeah, your little charity case really payed off, huh?”

Sherlock turned to her, his gut churning. 

“What is wrong with you?” John asked, brows furrowed.

“She’s just jealous ‘cause she was number one last year,” Greg replied admonishingly. 

Irene scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“Whatever.”

She stood up and left. Sherlock felt his cheeks reddening. 

“It’s not you, Scott. She’ll come around. Sometimes she just can’t help it,” Molly said nervously. 

Sherlock nodded and everyone basked in an awkward silence for a second. 

“So, how’d you learn chess, Scott?” John asked, a small smile on his face. 

“I played it a lot when I was a kid. My brother taught me.”

Molly perked up. 

“You have a brother?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. 

“Not a fan of him?” Greg chimed. Sherlock shrugged. 

“I get it. I have an older sister and she drives me crazy. She’s a senior now.” John added. 

Sherlock nodded and avoided looking at them. The conversation continued in that direction, John talking about a party his sister was going to and how his dad wanted him to go with her to keep an eye out, but Sherlock wasn’t really paying attention.

He should just start getting used to not having them anymore. And he didn’t like the thought of that one bit. 

He said he needed to get some books before his next class and left. He felt John’s eyes on him and took a deep breath. 

When he got to class early, Billy (the stoner whose name he’d found out recently) was rolling a joint again. He offered a hit again. Sherlock sincerely pondered the possibility of accepting, but decided against it. Too risky, too uncontrolled. 

After class, Greg came to talk to him and asked if he wanted to practice with him and Irene after class on Friday. They were getting takeout from Aron’s. Molly might be there as well. He said that was cool and went to the bathroom before leaving the school. 

However, as he walked by the parking lot, he heard Irene’s voice clearly. She was talking to Greg, perched up against a red vintage car. 

“Greg! No one’s just that good by playing when they were a kid!”

“What are you even implying, Irene? That he lied about how he learned chess?”

“Yes! Why would he lie about that? What else is he lying about?”

“Come on, that’s ridiculous. He’s just shy and good at playing chess.”

“Really? What has he told us about him? Where did he go to school? Why did he transfer? When he talked to John’s ex, he knew she had a Chihuahua because its fur was on her shoe? How did he know that?”

Greg stayed silent and Sherlock’s heart stopped, clenching painfully. 

“Greg. He’s _hiding_ something.”

Sherlock turned around and went home. It was so obvious. He couldn’t believe he’d thought it would be okay for him to be around those nice people without hurting them in some way. He always found one.

That night, he found he didn’t want to continue his experiment on types of saliva. He paced around his room and ignored his mum when she came to knock on his door. He decided to play his violin. 

He didn’t know what emotion he was feeling, but all he could think was that emotions had made him dumb when he knew he was smart. Mycroft was right. They were dangerous. Caring was dangerous. It felt so good, though. It was like being held. 

It was laughter and companionship and happiness. It just wasn’t for him to have. 

The passionate and angry tune he was belting out with his violin, the strings suffering beneath the weight of the song, devolved. He breathed for one second, then unconsciously started playing ‘ _Twinkle, twinkle, little star_ ’. One of the first songs he’d ever learned. Maybe he felt just like a traveler in the dark, looking for a something he didn’t understand. A star. 

On Friday, he kept his head down just like he’d been doing for the last couple of days. Irene was constantly making a show of asking him uncomfortable questions that had him squirming on his seat. Thankfully, Greg and John had caught on, and kept derailing her with embarrassing stories or questions of their own. 

It would be difficult when they practiced, though, since it required some singular interaction and complete concentration (for some). Sherlock didn’t really know what to think. He’d been feeling anxious and sad for the last couple of days. Not even walking with Molly or talking with John seemed to be of any help. 

He felt like he had been sentenced to death.

Mike, John and Molly didn’t go with them that day. Mike said something about studying for the Math pop quiz and John and Molly had shifts at the bookstore. So that left only Greg, Irene and Sherlock. 

They settled on that square in front of Aron’s, and got milkshakes before going to the chess tables. Sherlock forgot to bring his set of pieces (one he hadn’t seen in a couple of years), so Irene and Greg played each other first. 

Sherlock refrained from commenting on all three mistakes Greg made and two of the three times Irene could’ve won. She won on the third. The game took a bit longer than Sherlock expected it to. 

Next, Greg played Sherlock. Irene wanted to take a breather and observe. She opened up one of her books (one of the three most basic chess strategy books ever, Sherlock had read it back to back in order to beat Mycroft in a solid half an hour when they were smaller), but her attention was on the game.  
Sherlock ignored her heavy gaze and played in silence. 

“So, Scott, were you in your last school’s chess club?” Irene asked, leaning forward to watch him just after Greg made a terrible choice with his tower. 

Sherlock just shook his head negatively and moved his queen forward. 

“So you just remember all this stuff from when your brother taught you?” She bit out. “Have you read any chess books, or are you saying you’re just some sort of Bobby Fischer?”

“Irene, come on, don’t bite his head off,” Greg grumbled, the lines of his forehead evident as he struggled to hide his king without sacrificing a knight. 

“I’m just skeptical.”

Sherlock looked at her out of the corner of his eyes and zipped up his hoodie, uncomfortable. 

“Come on, why didn’t you tell us you were good? Or how you’re this good?” She prodded.

Greg lifted up his head once again, sighing and making (from Sherlock’s calculations) the second-best defense he could’ve made. 

“Stop it, Irene.”

“I want to know!” She raised her voice. “Scott, just tell me. Why did you lie to us?”

“Irene!”

“He’s a liar, Greg! What are you getting from this, huh?”

Sherlock flinched away from her, eyes stuck on the board, his brain in overdrive. How – What should he respond? 

Sherlock’s blood was running fast and he felt the heat underneath his skin, crawling up to his face. Greg was looking at Irene admonishingly and Irene was looking at him with anger in her eyes. 

He stood up clumsily, after making one last deliberate move on the board. 

“Check.”

Then, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and left hurriedly. He vaguely heard Greg and Irene fighting as he made his way home, but ignored it all the same. The streets seemed to warp before him. The stone streets were biting into his shoes and making his legs feel like the floor was versatile beneath him. The shops blended together, and he tried to close his eyes and push forward anyway, but he lost his footing and stumbled. 

He felt like he couldn’t breathe. He had to stop walking and lean on the concrete wall of a small parking lot in order to stop panicking. 

He hadn’t lied. He’d just…hid. How could he have hurt them just by omitting the parts of himself he’d rather forget? There were tears in his eyes, but he refused to acknowledge them. It was always like this with him, wasn’t it? He hurt people without even trying. Every. Time. 

When he got home, his mum was fortunately working, in her study, and so he just ran straight into his room. He was antsy, though. He had nervous energy in his body. The competition was going to be tomorrow, and he’d be in a room full of people who’d either hurt him or been hurt by him. 

He paced, His hands shaky and uncoordinated. He picked up his violin, but he couldn’t focus enough to move his hands in any melody. He threw it on the bed angrily and stalked to his desk, hands ripping up the research he’d been doing for weeks with saliva. His pristine handwriting made him livid and he felt a scream caught in his throat.

He’d just have to get through Saturday. 

Then he could go back to being a nobody like he was supposed to be. Keep his brain inside his head and his feelings under his feet. 

He didn’t sleep a wink that night. His mother offered dinner through the door and he just cleared his throat, answering that he was in the middle of an experiment in his best impression of himself. He laid on the bed with his thin gray pajamas, tossing and turning until he’d sweat cold into the bed and got up again. He tried to breathe and enter his mind palace, find anything in there about the Queen Mary chess club. Anything at all. 

He couldn’t get there, though, at most he could view it through glimpse as he flew around the halls.

When the light that had been steadily coming in through the window hit his face, he looked at the clock. He didn’t shower or eat. He just put on the same clothes from the day before and left, leaving a note on the counter reminding her of the competition so that she wouldn’t worry.

His hands shook as he clutched the set pieces he’d frantically found the night before and his legs were wobbly as he walked towards the school. 

And he went in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 of this insanity!! Have the chapter!! Take it! This is slowly killing me, by the way, my fingers are going to break from typing. Love, Bee :)


	13. (Check) Mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is nervous about the chess competition. John helps.

The Queen Mary boys would come to their school. It was an alternation system, most likely. So, next time the two schools “trained together”, as the instructors wrote on the blackboard and enounced exaggeratedly in front of the class, implying they did not see it that way.

Sherlock was walking in a haze, clutching Mycroft’s set, so much so that he barely noticed Molly, John and Mike talking with Irene and Greg, who looked sharp and well-dressed. 

“Scott!”

He was startled and turned to them, disconcerted. He noticed Irene’s lipstick was so perfectly in place it had to have been applied multiple times, indicating nervousness, as did her tight bun, keeping her in control. Greg had bitten-through nails, which wasn’t uncommon, and he had bags under his eyes, as well as dry fingertips. He’d spent the night reading and smoking.

He didn’t notice he was tugging his own hair until he felt Molly’s hand on his arm. 

“Scottie? Are you okay?”

He only hummed and his eyes jumped around a little more. He couldn’t keep still. John licked his lips, his eyebrows pulled tightly together. Concern. Mike’s eyes were wide, shocked, his glasses dirty. He’d probably studied late and taken his glasses off more than once with his fingers. He’d probably had oily food and had been having trouble with math. Molly’s eyes were wide and her eyebrows were pulled together.

As his eyes converted to hers, redness invaded her face and her pupils became dilated a fraction. Attraction. Towards him. 

Irene shrunk and swallowed. Looked away and at the ground. Guilt. Her shoulders came up to bracket her neck and her hand clenched. Anger. His father’s cutting words made its way into his mind, telling him to “Shut up about it,” and just “ _Be normal, William._ ”

He stepped back and tried to find the classroom, his brain racing, his heart beating, his skin sweating. He tried to breathe slowly. As he entered the gym, where the matches were to take place, he saw most chess club members huddled together around Prof. Wilson, who was giving them last minute pointers. 

Sally Donovan was already sitting on the bleachers, next to the huddled up unity of the club. She flashed Sherlock a nasty look. Her face contorted in disgust, but her disheveled hair and crossed arms suggested defensiveness, and so insecurity. 

He tried to clear his throat and his brain. He felt as if his mind was amidst an earthquake. He breathed in and out and ran a hand through his hair. A hand landed softly on his shoulder and he flinched form it, turning around rapidly. 

It was John. He let his hand fall beside him calmly and slowly. 

“Scott, we’re going to the loo, okay?” His voice was consistent in tone. 

Sherlock nodded hazily. 

He was basically guided to the restroom, John behind him, hand hovering over his lower back. When they got there, Sherlock caught sight of himself in the mirror. He was pale and sweaty, his hair oily and without volume, his eyes tired and crazed open, heavy bags under them. Panic. 

He started breathing more shallowly, and John laid a hand on his chest. 

“Scott. Hey, Scott, look at me.”

His eyes jumped around until they reached John’s in the mirror. They were steadying and concerned. Calm, but inquisitive.

“Breathe.”

He felt John’s hand against his chest as his lungs expanded. He breathed with the other boy. 

“Breathe.”

He did it once again. John smiled comfortingly. 

“The games are just about to start. You can let the substitute play if you want to.”

Sherlock breathed again, eyes closing. He wanted to run more than anything. Run away and never see the Queen Mary uniform again. But this was his element. This was intelligence, strategy. Something he was good at. And he hadn’t showed his smarts in so long. Showed himself. 

This was his last event before becoming a nobody again. A ghost. 

He just shook his head. 

“I’m going – I’m going to play.”

John nodded, eyes calmer, shoulders less tense. 

“Okay. Molly, Mike and I will be watching the entire time, okay?” Sherlock nodded. “Okay. Good luck.”

Sherlock nodded again. He felt his heart beat slower. His hands were still sweating and his shirt was clinging to his chest. He still felt cold. Looking into John’s eyes, though, he felt the pressure in his chest let up a bit. He erased all the thoughts in his head and just looked at John, feeling his concern. His…care. 

He tried not to think about how he could hurt him. He shouldn’t have let the other boy care for him. Shouldn’t have cared. Shouldn’t care. 

But he just _did_. For one second. 

They left the loo without hurry, and Sherlock instantly noticed that the Queen Mary boys had arrived already. They were all standing before a professor had not yet met, turned to each other, discussing how to intimidate their school’s chess club, no doubt. They were all clad in the uniform, their hairs gelled back and backs straight, hands in their trouser pockets. 

Sherlock shuddered. There weren’t that many people sat on the bleachers. Their school’s club was already sat on the first row, a bundle of nervous energy, Prof. Wilson stood next to them, back straightened and blouse buttoned to the top. 

As he approached them, John leaving to sit with the dozen or so students who gathered there, Prof. Wilson motioned to him with her hand and held his shoulder as soon as he was in reach. 

“Scott, what is the matter? Do you need me to call in the substitute?” 

Sherlock couldn’t focus on her voice, though, as the other club dispersed on the other side of the gym. He wanted to scour the crowd for a familiar face, but he was so nervous his eyes glued to their glistening shoes.

“Because I really don’t want to,” she whispered, eyes alert. “But if you are unable to play, I will.”

He made himself look up to their figures and countenances. He recognized a couple of them from the corridors, the classes, the halls, but none of them really rang a bell in his head until his eyes met an Irish boy’s smirk. 

Jim. 

Jim Moriarty. 

He felt a sudden lurch of rage. A wave of warm blood invading his chest, pumping his blood. A cold shock up his neck in fear. 

“I’ll play,” he said, suddenly, the words not befitting his tingling lips.

He sat next to Irene, who’d placed strictly below him. Jim had not yet looked back at him. He kept his eyes on the boy, though. Burning holes into his elegant, composed silhouette.

He was the last one to play. There were four tables placed just as vertexes of a square. Starting from the four people who’d placed lowest, they’d each play against the person who’d placed correspondingly. As the matches ended, they’d start filling the tables until the ones who’d placed first. 

He ignored everything during these matches, looking over what to him was just a sea of heads to Jim Moriarty, who sat relaxed without ever looking at him, seemingly oblivious. The sound of the chess pieces hitting the boards roared through his head like they were gunshots. 

He saw Greg stand up to play, and just as he did, the instructor turned to them and said they had lost two matches more than Queen Mary, whose students sat with their chests puffed out. Prof. Wilson told them in a strict tone that it was more than fine if they lost, but that they needed to do so with dignity. 

Sherlock bristled with even more anger at that. He wasn’t going to lose. Never mind losing with dignity, laying down his king, shaking another boy’s hand. Especially Jim’s. He felt an imprint of what that handshake might be. The touch of the other boy he hadn’t felt since that night. _Are you a virgin?_

Irene also hunched over at that, angry. He could see the expression contained in Greg’s face as he lost to the boy he was playing. They were so smug. 

When he stuck his eyes to Jim again, the boy had an even more pleased look plastered upon his face. He grinned and stared up, for the first time looking directly into Sherlock’s eyes. Fear surged up his spine in a cold shockwave. He tried to keep his face serious and confrontational, but Jim laughed anyway. 

Irene was then the only person sitting beside him. Little by little, every single person had stood up and left, leaving less and less people between him and Jim. His heart beat stronger every time a nervous teenager stood up to take their place. He felt once again as if he were waiting for death. 

“Do you know that guy?” Irene asked when Jim and Sherlock held sustained eye contact for over five minutes. Jim smiled at it, even though there was no way he could’ve heard it. 

“Yes,” his voice came out raspy and weak. 

She looked at him with wide eyes, surprised. He didn’t break eye contact with him. She sneaked her hand towards his, laying it cautiously over Sherlock’s.

“Scott, I –”

She was called upon then, so she just looked at him with a confused expression and went on to her table, composing herself. Greg had already come back, but, as the other players, he was sitting behind the first row. It was just Jim and Sherlock, then, staring at each other. Preparing for battle. Them and the substitutes, all the way down form them. Number thirteens. 

The tables took longer to clear out as they approached the first places. Sherlock’s eyes went through the games, trying to determine their fates, their timetables. The table in front of Irene’s was the one to open up. A win to their school. Moriarty barely seemed shaken by it.

Sherlock grasped his set as Prof. Wilson gestured him to the newly freed table. His legs shook as he walked towards the table and he tried his best to disguise it. Thankfully, he was well-acquainted with spending the night awake, and so appearing calm and collected wasn’t such a struggle. 

He sat down first, so that if he leaned to the left or to the right, he could spot Irene playing another Queen Mary boy, his back to Sherlock. He watched Jim stand up and walk over to him as if he were strolling through the park. 

As calmly as he could, Sherlock opened his chess set. He was, however, interrupted by Jim, who sat down across form him. The closest he had been since standing over the younger boy, beating him senselessly. He could see his face clearly, now, his hands, his body, his image, which had been tainted by time. Inside Sherlock’s mind. There he was, flesh and blood, in three dimensions.

Sherlock was struck with a forlorn feeling. He somehow still missed Jim. No more than he resented the boy, though. The anger he felt pulsed beneath his skin, dampened only by the fear he felt and the strange tugging at his heart, the heavy pressure on it, that the boy incited. 

The Irish boy opened his set before Sherlock could do anything, and stuck out his two hands, each one clenching a pawn of each color. He smirked at Sherlock. 

The younger boy reached his hand out slowly, reluctant to feel the other’s skin. As his hand approached Jim’s right one, the boy’s lips tightened. He didn’t want for Sherlock to choose it. Sherlock tapped it with one finger and felt as if he’d been electrocuted. It was just a fleeting touch, but it was enough to leave its mark. 

Jim opened his hand to show the black pawn. He stared at Sherlock’s eyes, and they did nothing for what felt like an entire minute. Then, they went about organizing the chessboard in silence. 

Jim hadn’t wanted the advantage. He wanted to beat Sherlock even further than he already had. Even further than winning with an advantage. He wanted to destroy him. It was evident in his dark, gleaming eyes.

The game was set. 

“Hello, Sherlock,” that voice drawled out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 4!! Happy festivities! :)  
> Tomorrow will be the last day of this mess.   
> Are you happy I brought him back? Did you miss him? Someone else will be making an appearance soon. Guess who?  
> Love, Bee :)


	14. (Check)...Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chess match brings up some things for Sherlock and for his group of friends...

“You don’t seem to be doing so well.”

Jim had the first move, but his hands remained pristinely laid atop the table, next to the chessboard. Sherlock remained tight-lipped. His world had been reduced to Jim and the board laid out before them.

“Are you still mad about our little fight, love?” He joked. 

Sherlock lowered his eyes and stared at the chessboard instead. 

“It’s such a treat that we get to play one another. I do like it best when it’s just me playing you, though,” he nearly whispered. Then, he basically mouthed: “More fun.”

Sherlock’s eyes remained cast upon their still game. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he felt goosebumps all the way to his fingertips.

“It was disappointing when you left our school. You were…interesting, to say the least. Entertaining at best.” Jim’s hand finally clutched a pawn and he made his first move. “Now you’re just boring. Plain, normal, boring.”

Sherlock studied the board. His first move was calculated, a response made by some world champion or another. Jim seemed delighted.

“Maybe not that much. I do miss seeing you in our school uniform, though.” He made his next move in a deliberate, precise fashion. “You fit your role better that way.”

Sherlock made his next move angrily, trying to throw Jim off. He hit the chess piece onto the board with more strength than necessary.

“Spicy. Are you still a virgin?” Jim’s eyes stared into his, playful. Sherlock felt the involuntary blush covering his skin, and he did his best to keep the rest of the world outside. He’d deal with it later. He needed to maintain his focus.

It was hard, though, when Jim looked over at the precise spot where John sat and smirked. John was staring at them with his brows drawn together. Jim looked back at Sherlock, whose skin was tainted pink. The room wasn’t silent, but they were nearly the only two people having a conversation. A very one-sided one, at that. So there was a possibility they were being heard. 

Sherlock couldn’t let this weight him down. When he brought his attention back to the board, Jim had already made his move. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Sherlock made his move.

Out of everyone, they were the ones that took the most time to finish their match. Irene’s game drew on for some time as well, but not nearly as much as theirs. Anyone versed in chess, though, could see that Jim held the upper hand. Sherlock was too busy trying to defend himself to perceive any strategy forward.

He kept pestering Sherlock, asking about why he’d left the school with a teasing drawl. It wasn’t hard to distract the other boy, however, as the mere sight of Jim, his body, his hands moving the chess pieces in a somehow suggestive way, already hammered the boy’s brain.

He kept flashing back to Jim’s hands on him, on his pockets, his waist, his arse. His hands lost in a flurry of them, raining down on him with the intent to hurt him. His tongue down his throat. Sherlock swallowed. 

He hated that he was flustered. 

He only saw the end of the game four moves out. He’d lost. Jim knew it too, evident by the way he was staring at Sherlock with a mock-pity expression. The instructors were watching from afar, next to the substitutes on the bleachers. He felt everyone craning their necks, 

Sherlock begrudgingly raised a shaking hand, acknowledging his loss. There was a bitter taste in the back of his neck. He just wanted to go home and perhaps never play chess again. And throw up, definitely. 

Jim grasped his hand in the most intrusive way possible. Sherlock could feel every inch of his skin touching the other’s and the strength behind his fingers. He pulled Sherlock in, and the tall boy felt the warmth of the other’s skin, sliding over his own like a slug. His stomach churned.

“I guess you’re still my bitch.” He whispered. 

It was as if a spotlight had been diffused into the entire stage, and so Sherlock could see everyone again. They were clapping, and even Prof. Wilson, who was tight-lipped and hunched over, seemed to think the match was admirable. 

Queen Mary had won, obviously, the bigger number of matches. The instructors also shook hands and the other school’s students started to pile together with the exception of Jim, who was still standing in front of Sherlock, gathering his pieces. 

The players were gathering around the instructors, definitely discussing their strategies, being congratulated and consoled. Most of the people who were up on the bleachers had cleared out, but Mike, Molly and John were still there, and they started walking towards Sherlock and Jim. 

The Irish boy’s eyes were locked to his, and his defeated form lurched again in anxiety. He felt like his bones were suddenly made out of glass. Jim smiled, and Sherlock let out a breath. The fear settled into him with every step his friends took towards him. 

“Scott!” John called, and Jim raised his eyebrows.

“Hey,” Molly started, as they reached the table. Sherlock’s eyes were glued to Jim’s in a silent, pathetic plea. “What a long match!”

Jim stared at her and Sherlock felt that wave of warm rage invade his body. The Irish boy licked his lips and Molly blushed, but as he did so, he looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes and winked. 

“It was a good game, Sherlock.”

Molly spluttered into a nervous giggle. Sherlock felt like there was vomit coming up to his throat. John must’ve sensed how uncomfortable Sherlock was feeling, because he just shuffled closer to him and touched his arm.

“Alright, mate?”

Jim stared at the spot where they were touching and smirked at John suggestively.

“I bet he is.”

That was all Sherlock could handle. He just turned around sharply and left in a sprint. He hated Jim. He hated him. He couldn’t understand how he had been so stupid as to not see the deception behind the upperclassman’s eyes. He hated that they’d kissed. That he’d felt Jim’s hands all over him. He hated that he had played his violin for him. Bitch. _Bitch_.

He hated the ghost of Jim between him and the group of friends. He didn’t stop running until he reached the parking lot. He barely felt the tears running down his face, but his eyes were cloudy with them and he couldn’t see anything at all. He wanted to scream, and break, and fall apart.

He sobbed, trying to push it down as best he could. Everything he’d built was falling down. Every single thing. Even his calm, controlled exterior. Why had Jim said those things? Did he hate Sherlock? Hadn’t he hurt him enough?

As much as he tried to keep it all in, as soon as he walked in the door to his house, he collapsed. He didn’t care that he could see his father inside his study, or that he could hear his mother in the distance, singing as she cooked up something or other. 

“William? What is the meaning of this?” His father blurted out. 

William. William. Maybe he needed to be William. He’d been colder than usual since Sherlock’s transfer. He was of the opinion that it was a cowardly move and that Sherlock had to learn to stand his feet. He thought he needed to learn some manners, and whatever method was welcome. 

Was William a more proper sounding name? Maybe he’d use it someday. He wanted to bury Sherlock. Bury him under six feet of dirt and never let him out. In him, Sherlock was the screw-up, the softy, the sissy, the sentimental little fuck. He ruined everything!

Sherlock locked himself in his room and slept for sixteen straight hours. A weight chained him to the bed. The Irish drawl kept laughing at him in his head. Next to his ears. His mother had left a plate of food outside his door for when he woke up, and he failed to stomach it. For the rest of Sunday, he just sat by his window, overthinking and trying not to overthink. And failing at it. Always failing, Sherlock. 

It was over. It was just over. Scott had been stripped from him, leaving the still naked, not ready body of a recovering Sherlock. 

He showered before going to school because his mother dragged him in there and threatened to wash him herself. He felt raw, his skin rubbery and his entrails raged inside him, sick and angry and sad and angrier still. How was his body even standing up? He couldn’t feel his legs.

He put on his darkest clothes and went to school with a navy blue hoodie covering his entire body. His entire being. He would bury himself if he had the energy. Walking in was horrifying, but he couldn’t hear a thing, which was good, and couldn’t see a thing, which was nice, and his heart jumped with every single secondary student who left a classroom or the bathroom or crossed the hall or looked his way.

Which was horrifying. He couldn’t hold in the adrenalin pumping through his being. He felt faint. 

His mother gave him Molly’s Tupperware for him to give back and he felt strangely numb looking at it. Numb, numb, numb. Her dilated pupils flashed into his mind and he started sweating again. 

Mum drove him to school, and he was sure she said something. Some words of wisdom. Her lips moved and there was sound, but his ears felt distant and his brain was hibernating. Nothing made any sense, her lips were saying words and sounds were coming out but they weren’t words, they weren’t anything, they were away, far away. 

The entire day he hid. He sat in the back of his classes, stayed in the bathroom during lunch and just kept his face down in general. His heart jumped, and pumped, and threw his blood around his body in a strange and study-worthy manner. Molly was waiting for him at his locker at the end of classes. She saw him before he could run away in panic.

He approached her carefully, opened his backpack, and gave her the lasagna-less Tupperware back. She accepted it with a shocked look and stammered. 

Sherlock turned around, ready to leave, even though he could hear the vague hum of something being said to him, but he was then faced with the rest of the group, which had run over after class to talk to him. He saw their lips moving but he was unable to tell what they were saying. He couldn’t understand it if he tried. 

“…Sherlock?” He heard in the midst of everything else, coming out of Irene’s lips. 

He froze and stared at her blankly. Everyone was silent. In fact, the whole world was silent. He felt as if he were the main character in a play about to start. There was no spotlight, and those words resonated away. What was he to say? What even was the question? Who was he? Who was Sherlock?

He felt John’s hand on his shoulder. It laid there unassumingly and harmless, but strong. 

“We just want to help,” he tried, gently. 

Sherlock stared at him, eyes wide. His lips unstuck themselves drily. His throat was so sore he didn’t know if he could even rasp any words out.

“I – I can’t.”

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t. He just, – he fought the knot inside his chest. He fought to take a step backwards and let John’s hand fall away.

And he left. He ran, he stumbled and, before a mirror, he grabbed at and slapped his own face, trying to rid it of the awful person attached to it.

Then he punched the mirror. Laid his head on the bathroom floor and gave out.

And let himself curl into his own body and disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys!!!! Happy Holidays!! Thank you so much for everything :)  
> All my love, Bee <3


	15. John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is angry with how his friends are treating Scott. What will he do about it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with 2021 comes hope! Happy new year, lots of love. Bee :)

Everyone was screaming. Irene was very angry with Scott. Molly was worried. Greg was conflicted, and Mike was suspicious. They’d talked about it briefly after the competition on Saturday, but not a whole lot, as Greg and Irene were still quite bummed over their loss and they were all still very confused as to what had happened.

“We all saw what he looked like Saturday, though,” John tried. 

“Yes, thank you, John, he looked awful!” Molly cried, holding her Tupperware closer to her body.

“Because he was hiding something from us and it back to bite him in the arse!” Irene nearly yelled. 

“You guys have to admit that there was something …odd between him and that Jim guy,” Greg grumbled, leaning up against a locker. 

“Guys,” Mike started. “Maybe let’s take this conversation outside…” he said, looking around at the corridor, where some people were observing them out of the corner of their eyes.

“No, Mike! The conversation isn’t going anywhere! I’m done with this!” Irene shouted, her hair falling in a disheveled way, then proceeded to storm out. 

Molly followed her after throwing an apologetic look at John. He clenched his jaw, more than aware that without Molly, it would be hard to convince anyone in the group that they needed to seek out Scott and help him. 

The boys decided to walk out to the rugby field. John and Greg had practice in a bit anyway. It took a while, and they keep in silence. As they walked the halls, they received ugly looks from Sarah and her friends, who just happened to cross their paths. Ugh. John was so done with girls. He tried not to overthink the thought. 

And not to think about how Scott had absolutely eviscerated his ex. And how fond he’d felt afterwards. The tall, gangly boy was just adorable. And hurt. He didn’t understand how so many of his friends were on the fence about him after weeks of being friends with him. He was _likeable_ , for Christ’s sake. 

As they arrived, Mike turned to John with a bashful expression.

“It is weird, mate.” His voice was low.

“I know that, okay, I bloody know it, but even if he was keeping something from us, what’s the big deal?” John snapped defensively. 

“He lied to us about his name…” Mike continued, head dropping even lower. 

“It could be a nickname,” John said. 

“Mate…” Greg tried. “It wasn’t just the name thing, it was the whole weird dynamic he had with that guy.”

John bit his lip, angry.

“There could be any number of reasons for that,” he replied, still going strong.

“Okay, I know you really like him. I do too. And I _hate_ to agree with Irene, but there’s some shady stuff around him. He’s so secretive…,” Greg said with finality. He started to walk towards the lockers. “And if there’s a reason for that, he could just tell us instead of hiding it and then running off.”

“We shouldn’t think this much about it. He’ll probably come around. Maybe he’s just not ready.” Mike offered. 

John sighed, and followed Greg into the locker room. Mike waved goodbye or something. 

As they changed, the other rugby blokes started piling in, as well as the co-captain, James Sholto. He handled more of the exercising part of their team, while Greg focused on strategy and games. Greg announced something about a new strategy they were going to try out for the next practice, then he retreated, letting Sholto assume the leading position. 

“But as for today, we’re just working out and exercising. No game. We’re focusing on our throwing.” He clapped his hands and the players scattered.

Greg and John, as always, paired up for the exercises. The mood was a little strange between them, and as much as John knew he was to blame for it, he couldn’t bring himself to break the ice. He was still reeling from the discussion they’d had.

“He’ll be okay.”

“We don’t know that, Greg. He didn’t look okay,” John snapped. 

Greg kept his eyes on the floor, avoiding John’s steely gaze. They kept throwing the ball to one another. The captain eventually got to them. John had been steadily repressing his crush on James, as he had been dating Sarah, who eventually turned out not to be such a good person. 

“Watson. Nice form. Lestrade, elbow out,” he bellowed. Greg rolled his eyes, but did so anyway. He had a minor rivalry with Sholto. 

Normally, John would preen at the approval of his definitely-not-crush, but he had scarcely thought about James since breaking up with Sarah. The boy was muscular and tall, and usually John’s eyes would linger on his body, but he no longer found the impulse.

And it wasn’t like he was repressing his feelings anymore. Ever since his sister had come out to his parents, who’d reacted surprisingly well, he’d stopped feeling the need to shake off his thoughts about boys. Even though he had yet to tell anyone about it.

As Sholto walked away, Greg looked back up at John, his expression tentative. 

“He broke our trust, John.”

The blonde boy’s only response was to clench his jaw. 

He knew he should be feeling angry in some level. After all, he had been growing closer to Scott, and he considered the fiery shy boy to be his friend. And to be adorable. And cute. And attractive (come on, with those cheekbones, it would be impossible to _deny_ the fact). And truthful. And witty. 

But he just couldn’t forget the look of complete despair and hopelessness in Scott’s face when they’d approached him. And the sweat, the bags under his eyes, the feebleness of his movements. 

They mostly exercised in silence, and Sholto didn’t come to talk to them again. Greg said goodbye to him with a brief hand gesture and left, running so as to beat the rain, which was rapidly beginning to cloud the skies in gray. 

John lingered inside the locker room, packing his things and thinking. His bus left in thirty minutes anyway. 

“Something wrong, John?” He heard James’ voice, as the boy passed by him to get to the door. 

“Oh, not really,” he said, taking his bag out of his locker and closing it.

“Can’t have my star player distracted,” James joked. It was hard to tell, as he had such a serious demeanor, but the tone implied it slightly. 

John smiled.

“I’m worried about a friend.”

James nodded, encouraging him to go on. 

“Someone from his past came to the school and he’s been acting weird ever since. Our friends think he’s lying about some things, but I just…” He sighed. They walked out of the locker room side by side. “I’m worried.”

James looked pensive. 

“Have you tried talking to him?”

“He’s not really open. He’s very shy…”

James ran a hand through his own hair. 

“What about the person from his past?”

“No. He goes to Queen Mary, and he’s...odd.”

“Odd?” James lifted an eyebrow.

“Intense and… honestly, he looks a bit like a psycho.”

James pursed his lips. 

“It’s okay, Sholto. Thanks for hearing me out. I think I’ll let it play out, you know? Give him space... He’ll come around eventually.” The words sounded forced even to his ears.

John smiled at the co-captain and turned around, starting to walk to the bus station. 

“Watson, wait!” James said. “Look, I can see you’re really worried. If you sense something is wrong, you should do something. Even if it is talking to that odd psycho.” He sighed. “My little brother was bullied constantly in primary school, and I ignored it because I just thought it would go away. But he just got shier and sadder and now he barely speaks. I wish I had done something. Do something, John.”

John was touched. He felt strong.

“I will. Thanks, James.”

He spent the way home thinking of what he should do. He looked at the red lights along the streets and the prim houses’ picket fences and alleyways and flashy stores as they went by. The rainwater obscured his vision. John felt like that was his problem with Scott. The boy wasn’t lying. He barely said anything as it was. He was just obscured, blurry, distorted. 

He’d take his car out to Queen Mary on the weekend. He’d talk to the creepy guy. He’d get some answers, even if they came in strange ways through strange pathways. It was one way to understand the boy better. And help.

He thought about James’ brother. 

The rest of the week was miserable. They didn’t try to corner Scott again, with the exception of Molly, who tried to catch him after school, but never succeeded. In classes, he kept his head down and wrote. They didn’t see him in the cafeteria at all. Greg said he hadn’t gone to the chess club meeting. 

His name had become somewhat of a taboo between John and his friends, something which made John’s hands clench if he thought too much of it. Irene scowled when he came up, and it seemed everyone’s tongue got caught in a trap. It was like a cloud passing by them.

He only told Molly of his plans, and she said she’d gladly come with him, but her plans were soiled by her friend Janet, who needed someone to cover her shift at the bookstore where they worked. 

It was okay. John was taking his sister’s car, as she was spending the day with her friend Clara, so he had no qualms about going by himself. It was only about forty minutes out anyway.

He found his mind wandering as he drove out to the school. He’d spent the week in a strnge limbo of feelings. He missed Scott’s presence, even though it wasn’t very prominent at the best of times. 

It was a quiet presence of attention. It felt nice to be under an attentive gaze. It made him feel like someone cared. Someone was looking. And the person was looking was quite cute. He blushed at every slight insinuation and constantly showed a content spark in his eyes.

It was like Scott was grateful just to be there with them. John swallowed, feeling guilty and a bit angry. That’s what they’d taken from him. 

Queen Mary was insanely posh. John had only visited the school once, for the last year’s Chess Championship. He remembered a distinct smugness and amusement between the students. Afterwards, Irene explained that some asshole student had recently been taken to the hospital for something or other, and so the students were in a good mood.

God knows how she’d found out. Apparently being a gossip came with a distinct lull and pull which encouraged people to tell her things. Like being the devil.

There was a huge building, two side buildings and a small forest. John parked out front, a bit lost as to where he should go to find the boy. He didn’t even know his name. He hadn’t really thought it through. He’d just driven out to a school an hour from his house with self-righteousness and concern.

He decided to enter the main building and look for some sort of main office. As he walked the halls, the boys who crossed paths with him scoffed at his loose jeans, his worn brown shoes and old red jacket. He walked by an older man holding a stack of books, finally, and assumed he was a professor. 

“Sir?”

“Me?” The frazzled man responded to John’s general direction.

“Yes. I am looking for a student here, sir.”

The man twisted his body until he could look at John. He smiled. 

“An outsider! I haven’t seen one in weeks!” He said jokingly. John let out a polite laugh. “Come with me to my classroom, it’s the last one in this hallway, right there.”

He entered a very big laboratory and his jaw almost dropped. The man set his books on the table. John felt slightly more comfortable as he took in the man’s vest and jeans, as well as his unkempt hair.

“I’m Prof. Sherry. What can I help you with?” He asked, sitting down and logging into the school computer. 

“I’m looking for a student on the chess club. I don’t know his name, but he won the um…” John cleared his throat, feeling awkward. “Friendly chess competition last weekend.”

Prof. Sherry pursed his lips all of a sudden. He raised his eyebrows at John.

“Jim Moriarty. I can tell you his dormitory number. But, if I could ask…why are looking for him?”

John felt strange. Even this professor thought there was something off with this student. 

“Oh, um, it’s a bit of a long story…” He started, but then caught a hopeful flash in the professor’s eyes. “But basically, he acted really strange towards my friend during the chess championship, and now my friend’s acting weird and won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“Your friend…?”

“Scott Holmes.”

Confusion flashed over the professor’s eyes. His entire body deflated.

“Scott?”


	16. John Watson, Pt.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confronts Jim and subsequently goes after Sherlock.

John nodded. The professor’s brow furrowed. He turned his back to John and typed something in the computer’s search engine. The word “Sherlock”. John’s eyes widened in surprise and he craned his neck to see what had come up. 

It was a picture of Scott. He could tell it had been taken a couple of years ago, because his face was rounder and his hair was a lot shorter than it was in present day. Next to it, in a big, bold font, the words _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_. 

The professor turned to him. He looked desperate. 

“Is it him?”

John nodded. John bit the inside of his cheek. Of course ‘Sherlock’ hadn’t been a nickname. Just an embarrassing middle name. He tried not to smile. He knew Scott wasn’t a liar. However, this did confirm the group’s suspicion that he’d omitted the fact that he used to go to Queen Mary. John maintained his notion that it wasn’t because he had ill-intentions… But it was hard to deny that it was a secret. Something Scott had kept from them on purpose. But why? 

Prof. Sherry sighed. He stared down at his own hands. 

“Would you perhaps tell me what happened between them?” He asked morosely. 

John felt surprise color his face. He felt a surge of protectiveness over Scott, who might not want this strange man to know about his troubles. But, as he hesitated, he could see nothing but hope and worry in the man’s defeated eyes. 

He wanted to help. And that was all John needed to know. 

“Well, the guy, Jim, was just very… predatory. I didn’t hear most of the conversation they shared, but Scott seemed to be very uncomfortable. He was shaking, and even more pale than normal. And, when the game ended, he sort of grabbed Scott and whispered something in his ear…”

John omitted the worrying words he’d heard throughout the conversation. Prof. Sherry looked angry, but a weary sort of acceptance filled his features. He slid a hand over his own eyes. 

“How is he? Scott?”

John hesitated. 

“He’s been avoiding us. Jim called him ‘Sherlock’ in front of our friends and now he’s avoiding us. I’m worried. He doesn’t look too good.”

The man looked over his desk and out the window, a thoughtful look on his face. 

“Well, he left the school, started calling himself Scott… I think he didn’t want to think about what happened here, so he just tried to start over… He’s always been more inclined to hide when people reject him than to lash out.”

John’s breath caught in his throat.

“What happened here?”

Prof. Sherry let the question fill the silence. 

“The Queen Mary boys never liked Sherlock. He’s always been smarter than everyone here, and kind, nice, open.” He sighed. “They called him all sorts of names, beat him up. There wasn’t even a way to punish them, because everyone hated him so much. Even Sherlock wouldn’t give me names. He thought it would be rude.”

John listened, his heart beating strongly and loudly. He hated that this had all happened to the adorable boy he’d been getting to know for a while. 

“It got even worse when the other boys started to suspect his sexuality. So Jim Moriarty, an upperclassman, decided to play with him.” The professor set his jaw and tightened his grip on his own hands. “He _befriended_ him and then just…pulled the rug from under him. Beat him up so badly that he ended up in the hospital. He left after that.”

John looked astonished. He was shocked and livid that what he’d witnessed during the Chess Competition was the reunion of Scott and Jim after the events he’d just learned conspired. 

He was struck by admiration for Scott, who’d played out an entire match of chess with that boy, and suddenly felt more protective than he should for someone he’d known for such a small amount of time. He couldn’t help but feel a twinkle of hope at the insinuation that Scott might be queer. 

“Sherlock is a sensitive boy. Ever since he entered the school, he’s just wanted to have some friends. He tried so hard to get someone to like him… I think he’s always been scared that people won’t like him for who he is.” Prof. Sherry looked at John out of the corner of his eyes, hopeful. “Would you ask him to call me? I gave him my number. I thought he might call…”

John nodded briskly.

“I will, sir. And… thank you.”

He would show Scott that he was likeable. Loveable. He felt the urge to heal the hurts he’d learned of that day. And to hug Scott. And undo all the bad things that had happened to him. It made John feel a mix of helplessness and determination. 

He just hoped Scott would embrace his efforts.

Prof. Sherry gave John the number of Jim’s dormitory, and John was cautious proceeding. He wanted nothing more than to march there and punch the boy in the face, but he knew it would lead nowhere. He wanted him to answer to his crimes. And some part of him, a small part he wouldn’t dare voice, wanted to understand the comment Jim had made about him and Scott. 

Just to satisfy his curiosity. He bit his lip and reprimanded himself for hoping Scott was gay – Molly was obviously infatuated with the boy – but he couldn’t help himself. If anything, he’d get to watch Jim squirm. 

Anger and dread filled his veins as he walked there, but strangely his complexion remained calm and steady. He stood outside Jim’s door, briefly stopping to check if the room was empty or if, perhaps, the other boy was absent. 

He could only hear the sounds of turning pages and writing. He knocked on the door a bit harder than he should’ve. 

“Yes, yes, come in,” an Irish voice drilled out.

He opened the door doing his best to look menacing, even as he knew he was a tad short for boys his age. He knew he had broad shoulders and thick arms. Every single rugby coach he’d ever had made a point of telling him so. He could make an impending figure.

Jim was sitting down at his desk. The dorm room was very big, with two beds and two desks, with two moderately sized wardrobes. He hated how posh the school was. Jim also looked very posh, sitting in his primly ironed uniform, leaning back on his chair with his legs crossed. His hair was gelled back. 

“Oh!” He savored the word. “Sherlock’s new boyfriend. I’m surprised to see you.”

John was not fond of the way he was dragging his syllables. 

“I’m just his friend,” he bit out. 

Jim’s eyes widened and he uncrossed his legs, leaning toward John. 

“Interesting. My dear Sherlock has no friends.”

John clenched his jaw at the possessive pronoun. And wondered, sadly, why it was that Jim thought Scott was unable to have friends.

“Why?”

The question came out of John’s lips unwittingly. Jim smiled up at him.

“He’s a sociopath.” He said, getting up from his chair and looming over John, thin and strong. “High functioning,” he added with wonder-widened eyes, as if he were describing an unexplained scientific phenomenon. 

John huffed.

“I mean why do you think that _I’m_ not his friend?”

Jim licked his lips and smirked to himself in a way that made John’s blood boil. 

“I saw the way you were undressing him with your eyes.”

John frowned, and he was suddenly struck by a wave of uneasiness. He might have been doing it unconsciously, _Scott was very attractive, and it could be noticed by any person_ , but the fact that Jim had picked up on it was unsettling. 

“Weren’t you his – his _friend_?”

Jim let out a low, disbelieving laugh. 

“Of course not. He’s quite fetching, isn’t he? He was a virgin, though, so it didn’t quite work out. I’m not one to…coddle my conquests, even if it is more fun to pick them apart.”

“You’re disgusting,” were the words that left John’s mouth like lead. 

“Yes…” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, eyes looking John up. “It seems he has found himself a gentler _suitor_.”

“I am not a – a suitor!” John stammered, stepping closer to Jim. “What century are you from? We’re friends.”

“What do you want from him? His intellect?” Jim spat the word. “His brain is quite elegant. Remarkable. A piece of art. And he’s the same. Is it sex you want? Because he does look delectable…and he’s so insecure!” He grunted. “To tear him apart would be delicious. Well… it was.”

John shoved him hard. Jim stumbled, surprised, and let out a gruff laugh.

“He’s a person. Not a toy.” John’s jaw was clenched so tightly he felt his teeth grind. 

Jim rolled his eyes. 

“He doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.”

John growled.

“Neither do you.”

They stared at each other for a while. John’s hand ached to punch Jim in the face, but the smug bastard could probably bankrupt his family with a lawsuit. So he didn’t. He just threw open the door and left, yelling out behind himself:

“Stay away from him!”

“I was bored,” John heard, as he was leaving.

He turned around slowly. Jim was staring at him with an amused expression. He shrugged.

“That’s why I did it.”

John saw red. 

“You were _bored_? Fuck you.”

Jim laughed. And John decided to leave it at that. What a sick individual. A sick, sadistic, mad individual. 

He needed to talk to his friends. Most importantly, he needed to talk to Scott. His whole body felt like it was being pulled back to the boy. Although it would be strange to explain to Scott his borderline stalker’s behavior, he hated the fact that the boy had been carrying all those things to himself. 

That he’d been manipulated, beaten, driven away to hide into himself. 

He could say with absolute conviction, even knowing that Scott had a terrible reputation and appeared to be repressing his personality, that Scott was a good person. No bad person could fake the adorable looks the boy sent John. Even that first time they’d met at the bookshop.

The blush that often graced his cheeks, his careful and thought out actions, that small smile that seemed to exude gratefulness every time John did something mildly nice. 

He wanted Scott, John realized. Wanted to spend time with him, to bask in his company, to look at his beautiful self and listen to the few things he’d let escape the confines of his person. 

It was a long drive back to his small town. It was, however, shorter than his drive to the school, as he stopped at Scott’s house.

He left his car out front and walked to the door. The house was of considerable size, especially for its neighborhood, but it wasn’t a mansion. There was a garden around it and two stories. John stared at the windows and wondered which one might be Scott’s.

He knocked on the door. He was slightly nervous, but he was more worried than anything else. The house was completely silent, and images of the last time he’d seen Scott flashed into his mind. He knocked again, antsy. 

He was a little scared someone would open the door. He was more scared, however, with every passing second it remained shut. James Sholto’s voice suddenly surfaced and swirled around his mind… _Do something, John._

When it became clear that no one was going to answer the door, John, with adrenalin coursing through his veins, stood back and looked at the house. He could climb the first floor window and reach the sloping plane of the roof leading up to the windows. Curse his small legs! 

Climbing the window was easy enough, but he had to reach up and pull himself to get to the roof, at which point he started to worry about how he must look to the outside eye. He took a breather as soon as he got there, though, to look at his surroundings. No one seemed to be looking. 

From that point on, he took to peeping through every window in search for Scott. The first room he looked into was completely bare save for an umbrella perched on a desk. The next one, at first glance, seemed to be inhabited as well.

It was a mess of papers, books, strange objects, science equipment and bedcovers. It was dark, only lit by the streetlamps outside. That was when he saw the mass under the duvet. There was clearly someone curled up in there. His heart beat with more ease.

John knocked on the window. Scott didn’t stir. He tried again, harder. Scott remained still. 

John started to feel a bit awkward at that, which was ridiculous. He had already climbed the boy’s house and stood outside his window after driving for more than an hour to his old school to confront his ex-boyfriend. Clearly, the line had been crossed a couple of steps ago. 

He tested the window, prying it open easily. He awkwardly slipped his body inside, stumbling slightly over a pile of psychology textbooks. 

Scott stirred lazily, only his head turning towards the sound John had just made. He lifted his eyes to the boy and grasped what appeared to be a stuffed animal of a bee. 

“…John?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I hope you like this chapter! Thank you so much for all the support, especially from Teirney, who has been commenting on every single chapter <3 have a great week! Bee :)


	17. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John talks to Sherlock.

It was a very strange sight to behold. Among the mess he had made for the past few days in his depressed and sentenced solitude stood the person whom Sherlock had wished to befriend more than anyone else. 

_John._

He felt like panic was building up in his chest, but it was greatly dampened. He didn’t really feel like caring anymore. He had decided to bury Sherlock. The boy was chained up deep, deep inside his mind palace. Next to Moriarty.

He couldn’t decide if he’d done it for penance or simply torture. He concluded it didn’t matter. 

“Scott. Hi.” John said, stilted. Sherlock ignored how good it was to hear his voice.

He cleared his throat.

“Hi.”

John stared at him for a few moments. Then, he wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. Sherlock could see the marks of a steering wheel held too tightly between his thumb and index finger. He could smell the eucalyptus trees that the Queen Mary dean insisted on planting around the campus even though they weren’t native to the place. Most of all, he could see the difference in John’s gaze. 

“I went to Queen Mary to confront…Jim.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised without his permission. He shifted on the bed, sitting up, vaguely aware of his state of moderate undress. He was wearing a navy blue robe, and it was relatively open, showing a sliver of pale skin across his chest.

He kept his bee close by.

“You did?” Sherlock asked, stupidly. “Why?”

John sighed. He hesitated for a second. 

“Can I turn on the lights?”

Sherlock looked around, briefly embarrassed about the mess around his room. 

“Um…Sure.”

John paced around a bit, endearingly careful with the things thrown about the room. He tattered for the light switch and turned it on. Sherlock squinted as it turned on, having grown unaccustomed to the light.

He rubbed his eyes with his hand and John suddenly looked horrified. Oh. It was the hand he’d punched the mirror with. Some of the wounds had scabbed over, but he hadn’t really payed attention to it. There were still some small pieces of glass embedded into his skin. 

“Scottie…” John sighed. “Let me take a look.”

Sherlock held his hand close to his chest. 

“Wait. Why?”

John looked devastated. And weird. Did he…pity Sherlock? The boy was unable to decipher his demeanor and it greatly frustrated him. He pulled his blankets closer to himself, covering his body.

“You’re hurt.” He said, as if it were obvious. And in a softer tone than he usually used. Sherlock tried not to pay attention to the crease in his eyebrows that suggested concern or the way his body was tilted towards Sherlock, which suggested he actually did want to help him and was holding himself back. Because he respected Sherlock’s boundaries? Because he was unsettled or disgusted by the mess? The way his shoulders were stiff. Anger? It would concur with the marks of the steering wheel in his hand. Was he angry at Sherlock? He would need additional data. 

He gave in. 

“No, John. Why did you go all the way to Queen Mary?”

John shifted his gaze nervously to Sherlock’s hand. 

“I’ll tell you if you let me wash your hand.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John let out a small smile. Pleading. 

“Fine.”

Sherlock wrapped his robe closer to his own body and dragged himself out of bed with some difficulty. His body felt heavy. He hadn’t eaten anything in a while. 

John, with infuriating gentleness, draped his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as they walked to the bathroom. Sherlock sat atop the closed lid of the toilet and extended his hand towards John, who was looking into the broken mirror. 

He opened the faucet slowly and lead Sherlock’s hand. Lead it, not grabbed it, not gripped it, held it gently where it was uninjured and didn’t immediately put it under the heavy flow of the water. He started by plucking the small pieces of glass from his skin cautiously. 

It filled Sherlock’s chest with too much emotion. He staggered in his breath and closed his eyes, tilting his head away from the other boy. 

“So, tell me.” John didn’t look away from Sherlock’s hand. “Were you suspicious? Like Irene?”

“I was worried,” John said, almost in a whisper. His thumb brushed over one of the bigger wounds in his hand. “With good reason.”

Sherlock swallowed. He looked back at John, who was almost cradling his hand. 

“That Jim guy,” he said, jaw clenched. “The way he talked to you wasn’t right. Since… since you didn’t seem like you were going to tell me what was wrong, I went over there to talk to him.”

He stilled his hands as he said it. So the anger came from his conversation with Jim. Sherlock wished his heart would beat more slowly. And he wished his stomach didn’t churn. And he wished his voice sounded steadier as he asked:

“What did he say?”

John’s breath hitched. 

“Awful things.”

“Tell me.”

John all but held his hand, silently wiping it clean. The only sound to be heard was the open faucet and the water hitting the sink. 

“He said you couldn’t have friends…because you’re a sociopath. And that you two were together.” He swallowed. “And that what he did to you… he did because he was bored.”

Sherlock felt detached. Tears were welling up in his eyes.

“What he did to me?” His voice cracked. 

John took a deep breath, shifting his gaze to Sherlock’s own eyes, pleading. _Don’t make me say it_ , they seemed to convey. Sherlock remained silent. 

“That he befriended you and then pulled the rug from under you… that he and his friends went after you and you ended up in the hospital.”

“You talked to Prof. Sherry.”

John seemed surprised by this statement. It was true, though. The way he phrased it… Jim would never had admitted to it. Especially not in that way. 

“Jim would never say we were friends.”

John cleared his throat and turned off the faucet. Sherlock’s hand throbbed in pain. 

“Yes. You were his…boyfriend.”

Sherlock let out a horrible, painful, hollow laugh.

“I was his bitch.”

John clenched his hand again. His other one closed around Sherlock’s long, slim fingers. They stood in silence for a while. 

“I’m sorry you had to see him again.”

Sherlock’s heart (as much as he wished to say he didn’t possess the organ) broke. His chest sunk.

“It was unfortunate. But bound to happen. He was right. And I can’t keep running from… the person he told you I am.”

“What…are you talking about?”

He stood up abruptly, swaying a bit in his place, his vision darkening.

“I am a sociopath, John. I am insensitive and rude and there were reasons for the people that hated me to do so.” He said. “I have tried to change, but due to my nature, I cannot keep up this façade any longer. I’m not…Scott. Much as I would like to be.”

John held a hand to his shoulder again. He’d walked over to where Sherlock had been gesticulating. He was behind the slightly taller boy. 

“You’re not a sociopath.”

“Yes, I _am_.”

“…Sherlock.” Said boy shuddered at the sound coming from John’s lips. “You might not ‘be Scott’, whatever that means, but I like you. Irene likes you. Molly, Greg, Mike. We’re your friends. Jim said we could only ever want your intelligence from you. But… that’s not it.”

“You don’t _know_ about my intelligence. Sure, you know I’m good at chess, and you may know that I have a respectable if not exceptional understanding of physics and chemistry, but you don’t know,” Sherlock said sharply. 

“We all heard what you said to Sarah. That first night, when we hung out at Aron’s for the first time. And you tried the diner’s milkshake. We know that – ”

“That was nothing, John. That was a passing and superficial demonstration of observational skills. I have not demonstrated my intelligence in front of your friend group in an effort to shield you from the same sort of behavior that has led so many people to be contemptuous of me. Evidently, it wasn’t the best plan.”

“It wasn’t your fault that they hated you, Sherlock. You were just being yourself, they were the ones at fault.”

“You sound just like Prof. Sherry. You don’t know what I was like, how could you arrive at the conclusion that it wasn’t my fault that they hated me?” Sherlock nearly yelled. 

“Because I know you!” John replied, just as heatedly. 

“You don’t.” Sherlock exhaled. “I have concealed much of who I am. My…faults. I am aware of them and I cannot change them. I am a sociopath. I do not know when I am being rude, nor do I care. I am stubborn and proud and apathetic. Those are the things I tried to conceal when in relation to you and your friends. They are, however and as I have come to learn, a part of me that cannot be extinguished. So you don’t know me.”

John looked at his eyes, unwavering. Sherlock tried his best to maintain his composure.

“If you’re so apathetic, why did you let your intelligence out for a stroll on Sarah?”

Sherlock swallowed. He tried to think of an appropriate response. 

“Let me tell you. It’s because we are friends. And you didn’t like her talking about me like that. And you, Sherlock, responded to the situation like yourself.”

Sherlock took a breath calmly.

“John, I am not a good person. However you might have responded to my intellect, I – ”

“I didn’t mean to say that we, that I responded well to it because you’re smart. That night, at Aron’s, I was just glad you cared enough to go up to her and…defend me. You’re a good person.”

“No, John, I’m…” Sherlock shook, emotional. “I’m a sociopath.”

John stepped closer to Sherlock, barely one palm between their noses. His hand rose from his shoulder and wound up under his chin, tilting his watery eyes to meet John’s. 

“I just think you have a nice smile.”

A tear fell from Sherlock’s eyes. He looked up, trying to keep them in.

“Please, _Sherlock_. I care about you. We care about you. Let us be your friends.”

“I… I don’t want you to hate me, okay?”

John looked baffled. Sherlock wiped his own face roughly.

“Why would I ever hate you?”

Sherlock diverted his eyes from John’s face. His feet were starting to get cold from staying atop the bathroom’s tile floor for so long.

“Everyone does. It’s just a matter of time.”

Sherlock heard a sharp intake of breath.

“Is that why you were hiding, Sherlock?”

“It’s…easier not to be Sherlock. And it is because everyone hates Sherlock, but it’s also because of the amount of things I see. For example, I see you want to help me. I see that you are concerned for me. I see you feel contempt for Jim. That’s all because of the body language you have shown since you got here. But I also see that you own a 1986 Impala, because as you angrily clenched the steering wheel on the way here, it imprinted its unique model into your palm. I saw that you have a difficult relationship with your sister before you told me. That’s because she parties and you don’t like that she drinks so much. I know that because every Monday, you show up to school with the faint smell of bourbon. I try to ignore it, but I place the scent on all of you in a nearly homogenous blanket, dissipating as every material and organ on your body suggests. That is not the drink of a girl in her teens, but an adult. And to make the whole environment imprint the scent onto you, it must be consumed often and copiously. Therefore, your difficult relationship stems from the fact that she is following a parent into alcoholism. I can’t be a friend. Because I know why you care. You have a helper’s complex, John Watson. It’s the reason why you are thinking of joining the army. As a doctor, might I add. It’s the reason why you befriended Greg, whose parents were getting divorced. You are with him in the rugby team and support him in his other clubs and such because they keep him away from home, same with you and your job at the bookstore. He demands too much of himself, a very common occurrence in children of divorce, which is why you gravitated towards him. You don’t like me, John. You like the idea of helping me. So does Molly, which is why Irene called me a stray when we met. Do you see why I can’t be friends with anyone? I don’t know how to stop this. I have tried and failed. I don’t know how to _fix me_.”

Sherlock finally looked at John, waiting for the fall out. The inevitable hate or defensive disgust. John was gaping at him.

“Extraordinary…”

Sherlock bristled in surprise. 

“Sherlock, you have a gift. You don’t need to be fixed. And…” He held Sherlock’s uninjured hand. “You can definitively have friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. guys! I hope you enjoy the chapter :) Finally, the angst is beginning to go away!! At least there is a beacon of hope. Thank you so much for all the support, reading your comments brightens my day! Love, Bee <3


	18. Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are falling into place.

John and Sherlock talked for some time that day. Sherlock explained to him what he had been starting to create as “The Science of Deduction” and the way he stored things in his brain. 

He had never felt so warm.

Eventually John had to leave, but it was okay, because Sherlock finally took a shower, put on fresh clothes and went downstairs to have dinner with his mum. She had smiled brighter than he’d ever seen when she saw him, wet curls and yellow hoodie. 

Sherlock didn’t really talk throughout dinner, but he enjoyed her company. And she beamed at him. He was starting to feel like he wasn’t that bad after all. Not after John had so recklessly opened the door where he kept himself locked with Jim Moriarty. And just…let him out.

Coaxing him gently. Sherlock found it hard to stop smiling. 

_Extraordinary_.

The words kept buzzing in his brain, like letters being sent to his mind palace. 

When he went back to school, driven by his mum with kind words and encouraging looks, John was waiting by his locker to greet him. 

Sherlock was nervous. His hands were sweaty and his nails slipped on his palm, trying to find solid ground on which to hold their tips. But when he looked into John’s eyes things seemed to slow their frantic pace. They smiled at each other. 

He was so glad the other boy had decided to do all that. For him. He drove all the way to his old school, interviewed the people from his past. All because he cared. Sherlock felt so lucky that John had somehow grown to care for him. 

When had it even happened?

Lunch was strange. John pulled him along (having walked him from class) and sat down next to Molly unceremoniously. Sherlock sat in front of him, next to Greg. He rubbed his palms on his trousers. 

Mike was already there, but Irene was nowhere to be found. She was the one he was most worried about. The woman who had watered the seeds of doubt left by Jim. 

“…Hi,” said Sherlock. 

There was an uncomfortable silence that stretched on indefinitely. Sherlock could feel his heart, pleasantly alive, beating in his ears. 

Mike slurped on his drink noisily. 

“So… your name is Sherlock, mate? S’gotta be rough,” he said, then followed it with an awkward shuffle. 

When it became apparent Sherlock wasn’t going to comment on it, John jumped in: “Actually, it’s worse than that. His name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”

Molly burst out into giggles and Greg raised his eyebrows.

“What, are you a lord or something?” Greg teased, shoving Sherlock’s arm playfully. 

Sherlock smiled. He felt warm. They didn’t say anything, but he could feel what they meant. The hole he’d dug himself into wasn’t so deep after all. They were still…friends. 

“Will is such a nice name! Why did you choose Sherlock?” Molly said carefully cheerfully, leaning forward over the table. “I mean, Scott?”

“I actually prefer Sherlock. I just think…” he looked at John. “It suits me.”

Molly blushed, but Sherlock was still looking at John. Greg then cleared his throat abruptly. 

Irene was walking towards them, a frown apparent on her face. Sherlock gulped. As soon as she arrived at the table, swaying her hips as she prepared to tear him down, John stood up to match her height. Sherlock looked up at him. A…knight in shining armor. 

“What’s he doing here?” She asked John, pointing at Sherlock quite rudely. 

“He’s our friend, Irene,” John said, hands clenched. 

She threw her head back and laughed, a pointed, pointy metal laugh. 

“Oh really?” She leaned down to Sherlock’s level and he blushed, feeling like a child. “Nobody told me. Seriously, him? – ” 

Just as she was about to start dissing him, Molly stood up also, a small, tiny figure, beneath a huge yellow jumper and a hefty scarf, hands clenched also.

“He’s _my_ friend, Irene.”

Irene, for the first time blushed in front of Sherlock. It had always been obvious that she had a special relationship with Molly, always around the smaller, more submissive girl, pushing her along, but actually tied to her, eyes never leaving her, a protectiveness Sherlock had previously chalked up to them being the only girls in the group. 

Irene, even as she dominated everything but her own feelings, was dominated by her love for Molly. The animosity towards Sherlock, the anger and jealously even as she seemed to like him individually, all made sense. 

So did the way she flipped his food onto him.

“I understand,” Sherlock said, not in response to the food staining his clothes and sticking to his skin, but to Irene.

Molly gasped in her annoying, high-pitched voice. She was flushed. It was as if she were saying _How dare you?_ to her friend. Irene clenched her hands and walked off.

Things were still for one moment, but then Sherlock stood up on a whim. John reached out for him, but Sherlock wasn’t seeking comfort. He stalked off after Irene. He vaguely heard Greg calling after him, but he wasn’t stopped. 

He was only a few paces behind Irene and he followed her to the school parking lot He didn’t call out for her. She clearly knew he was following her closely. She only turned around to acknowledge him when they reached the small part of it behind the school. It was where couples usually went to make out – there were only four parking spots. The school’s architecture really did leave something to be desired –

“What?”

It was raspy and wet. Her eyes were brimmed with tears. It was so strange to see Irene so unpolished and scattered that Sherlock had to take a moment before he found his voice. 

“I don’t like her back.”

Her eyes widened for a second, then she wiped her tears away, composing herself. 

“Who?”

Sherlock stared at her. She was obviously bluffing. Her hands were getting sweaty. He had to hand it to her, her poker face was nearly impeccable and she didn’t fidget once. Too controlled, however. Lying. 

“Irene, you’re so obviously in love.”

“What?” Her voice was weak. “I’m not…”

“Well, I am.” He said, voice unwavering. Yes, he was gay. And so was she. What a ridiculous conversation. He hated that they were both hiding. Even as they hid for the same reason. He scoffed. “Look at us both.”

She was staring at him in surprise. She let out a breath. He could see the relief flood her strict features. Then, she smiled at him. It was a great feeling. He smiled back. 

She trudged forward and hugged him briefly. 

“Thank you. I guess we _are_ going to get along after all.”

He chuckled. 

Lunchtime was over by the time they made it back to the tables and Sherlock was still filthy. 

“I can’t believe you threw food at me.” He teased. “So pedestrian.”

She looked at him with surprise and let out a big laugh. Then, she turned sassily forward.

“I can’t believe I hugged you after I did. _That_ is pedestrian.”

Sherlock felt happy. He just figured he’d have to deal with Molly’s feelings for him some point soon, both for Irene and Molly, who were put in a bind by it. 

He didn’t know how to do it, though. Even though she annoyed him sometimes, she hadn’t been anything but infuriatingly nice to him. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She would be more hurt if he omitted the fact that he wasn’t in love with her, though. 

Oh no, he hated having to do something he didn’t know how. But he doubted there were going to be any scientifically accurate studies on how to let someone down easy. He found only a subWikipedia article from a series called “WikiHow”. The art was disturbing.

He didn’t need to do it right away, though. For the moment, he just wanted to enjoy the feeling of being cared for. Being a friend. 

The next day was still hard to get through. And awkward. There were moments when Sherlock was sure one of his friends was going to ask about Jim. But they didn’t. And it got easier and easier over time. He helped everyone with their homework (even Irene, although she was too proud to ask), he went to the chess club meetings and gave them tips, he walked home with John very frequently, though never as closely as they had that one night Sherlock thought the boy was going to kiss him, he even went out with all of them to the diner or to the park. It was all fun. It was the most fun Sherlock had ever had, actually. 

It was strange to think that Jim lived only forty minutes away. Now that the boy had showed up and messed with Sherlock’s hesitant new life, the curly haired boy sometimes worried that Jim would just appear again and out of nowhere to try to ruin things for him.

He hadn’t realized it before, but he had been taking solace in the fact that Moriarty didn’t know where to find him. Now that he knew about Sherlock’s new school, every moment there was a possibility that the Irish boy would drive forty minutes just to torment him. 

Every time he grew bored during classes, he imagined him leaning against the doorway and yelling that he was a gay virgin to everybody. And then leaving with that infuriating and charming wink. 

Prof. Wilson had been pleased when he’d requested to sign into the chess club permanently, but had been worried for him after the events of the “Friendly Tournament” with Queen Mary. 

Their clubs were going to be facing off again at the end of the year, and as much as the thought terrified Sherlock, he felt more determined than anything else. He was going to beat Jim. He shared the thought with Irene as they left Chess Club.

Greg had stood back to speak with Prof. Wilson (he had an Algebra-related question, he’d explained), and Sherlock had been discovering an easy friendship with Irene. They were actually pretty similar, even apart from the sexual orientation thing.

“Who was he anyway?” She asked. 

Irene was always outspoken and usually never careful, even where she could stand to be, but Sherlock detected the difference in her voice from the usual brashness and bluntness of her questions. 

Her voice was normally a very cold, hard _Tell me._ , but the words, even as they scraped over a maybe not so scabbed over wound, held a certain _If you want to tell me…_

Sherlock appreciated it. He said, without hesitating, a burning behind his syllables: 

“He’s my piece of shit ex-boyfriend.”

Irene turned to him, a little shocked, then raised her head and laced her arm with his. 

“You’ve got horrible taste in men.”

Sherlock let out a low chuckle and she smiled warmly. 

“Can’t deny he is attractive, though.” Sherlock laughed a little more, feeling secure. “I mean, I see the appeal.”

“Ok, shut up.”

She smiled again and Sherlock couldn’t shake the feeling that, while nothing could really compare to the slowly building bond he’d built with John, a solid ground on which to walk, he was happy to have a friend such as Irene. 

When he walked home with John that day, the boy was quiet. He had rugby practice on the same day that Sherlock had chess club, so he was a bit sweaty.

“I hate rugby sometimes,” he blurted out. 

Sherlock looked at him inquisitively. 

“I don’t know, it’s just…” he stuck his hands in his pockets. “It’s great for burning my energy, my anger, especially when I’m angry about…my parents or my sister and all, but…”

Sherlock looked at him with slightly wide eyes. They hadn’t really talked about Sherlock’s string of deductions involving John yet. 

“I just want to feel it sometimes, I guess.”

Sherlock hummed in understanding. It was always a thrill to study, to experiment, to play chess, to ramble off his deductions, but when he really wanted to feel his emotions in a deeper way he picked up his violin. He told John as much.

“You play the violin?” Exclaimed John, surprised.

They were reaching Sherlock’s house already.

“I’m a little rusty.” Sherlock blushed. “But I could play for you sometime.”

John looked very pleased. A smile stretched itself across his face leisurely. 

“I’d like that. Thanks, Sherlock.”

His name had never sounded so good.

He didn’t notice the longingly sad look John shot him as he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm so sorry I took so long to update. Unfortunately, I'm probably going to take longer than a week for each chapter now. It's the beginning of my senior year and I'm studying like crazy, but I promise this fanfic is important to me and I won't ever abandon it. Thank you so much for reading, commenting and/or sending kudos! It really makes my day and encourages me to keep at it! Love, Bee <3


	19. Best Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get a closer look at Sherlock and John's friendship. Also, Irene makes a commitment.

John was going to come over on Friday. 

Technically it wasn’t a big deal, they had been friends for a while, but…

_John was going to come over on Friday._

The phrase kept repeating itself inside his head for days. Irene would roll her eyes every time Sherlock’s eyes met hers. He had told her about the …meetup? Hang out? And she’d been teasing him about it ever since.

“I won’t admit to anything, but even if I was inclined to do so, I would want you to say you like Molly out loud first.”

She’d shushed him and playfully punched him on the shoulder. The first time she’d done it, he’d been confused, asked what he’d done wrong, but he was rapidly learning and cataloguing everyone’s mannerisms.

He was so anxious for the day that John would come over, that first time. He had practically blushed his way through classes and sweat through at least two T-shirts before he settled for an airy short-sleeved button-up over a simple tank top. He had paced up and down the stairs of his house, tapping his finger on his legs, speed-read his bookmarked books along the living room bookshelf and looked nervously at his violin while he waited for John to finish his shift at the bookstore.

He had, for the first time in years, gone over sheet music he had already gone over. He was unsure what to play. He was so unsure, his fingers were sweaty and he couldn’t stop fidgeting. 

When John arrived though, nothing felt tense anymore. The blond boy smiled and Sherlock relaxed. This was only his friend, after all. He still felt awkward leading him through his home and after that, standing proudly in his messy room while John sat in his bed, holding his violin in silence. 

He stuttered for a second.

“I don’t… I don’t know what to play for you.”

John stared at him, eyes a little wide and cheeks a little pink. 

“Just…play what you like best.”

Sherlock blushed again, suddenly knowing exactly what he wanted to play. “Love’s Joy.”

As he glided his hands over the instrument, he noticed John’s expression of awe, but then he closed his eyes, feeling the music instead. It was a playful harmony. 

He thought about walking with the group, having lunch. Walking around town, playing chess. When John got him falafel. When John walked him home. Then again, and again and again. And then a faint memory surfaced… the very first time he saw John, through books and shame and everything cloudy. 

He barely noticed when he finished, and John stared at him, mouth agape. He looked very cute. It was endearing. 

Sherlock let the violin fall from its position below his chin and meekly mock-bowed. John was standing up and clapping the next second. 

“Did you like it?” Sherlock managed.

John’s chest filled with air. He looked like he was about to burst – his mouth opened and his eyes sparkled. Oh, God, _what was that sparkle?_. He didn’t say anything, though. He slowly deflated and then chuckled out, in a raspy voice.

“You’re amazing.”

Sherlock felt himself flush. He couldn’t even compute those words. And coming from John, of all people. Handsome, kind, incredible John. 

He didn’t even understand what he himself responded, but John laughed and lightly shoved him on the shoulder. 

They had takeout in Sherlock’s room, because his mum had arrived and insisted she didn’t want to intrude. After so many years without ever having one of Sherlock’s friends over, she wasn’t sure how he wanted to proceed, but she nailed it (as always).

Mum had been a fan of John ever since she learned the boy was the reason for snapping Sherlock out of his depression coma. When they went downstairs to grab the takeout, John, a perfect gentleman, introduced himself to Mum as she sat in the living room and read. 

“What a nice young man!” She’d said, prompting Sherlock to blush in embarrassment and grab John’s hand, taking him back to his room.

They spoke about many things that night. They started with the teachers, then progressed to their friends. John told Sherlock about how the group had slowly been formed, shared some old stories about them just generally messing around and told him that the group was a great support system to fall back on. He’d said, “I know I can count on them for anything, you know?”

That made Sherlock feel weirdly forlorn. Somehow, even as he was young, he’d lost so much. He’d never had friends like that, never even had someone who could call themselves a friend to him. His closest relationship to it had been his and Victor Trevor’s. 

He didn’t want to say that to John, though. Every time he’d mention Jim or his lonely “past life”, John would look sad. It prompted Sherlock to ask about something that had been on his mind since they’d planned the encounter.

“What makes you angry?” John looked back at him owlishly. “You said that rugby helps when you’re angry about your family. What makes you angry?”

John looked away and sighed. Had Sherlock crossed a line? He was about to apologize when…

“They just… they don’t care.”

It was all he said. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he felt the sudden urge to hug him. How dare they not care for John?

He ignored the small voice in the back of his head saying that his whole life he’d been told not to care and had never once thought about how people around him suffered for it. His father, Mycroft, while saying caring was a disadvantage, obviously cared for something, someone.

He thought about how it hurt that his father disapproved of him, but not only that, that he didn’t seem to care for him. And it hurt.

“They’re stupid. I’m smart and I care about you. So, obviously, that’s the better choice.”

The words came out without Sherlock’s permission. Was that the right thing to say?

John turned to him and laughed. Then, he reached out and held Sherlock’s hand in his for a few seconds. 

“John?”

The other boy only smiled at him a little sadly. 

Later, when he stood by the door, John in front of him, putting on his coat, Sherlock wanted to grab him, hug him, make him stay. 

“Thank you,” the other boy said, even as Sherlock felt it had been John who’d done him a favor by coming over. 

And as he left, Sherlock felt that the joy he’d felt was slowly being taken away. And in its wake, he found giddiness. He went to bed smiling. 

After that day, things seemed to click into place for Sherlock. It was rare for him not to be next to John or, at least, next to Irene or Greg. John would meet him every day before class, much to Molly’s chagrin, he’d walk him home almost every day (when he had rugby, Sherlock had chess club, so it worked out pretty nicely) and many times, Sherlock would hang out at the bookstore while John worked, criticizing the common way of arranging books and discussing literature. 

Often, as Sherlock complained about one or another book, John would roll his eyes and say “You really can’t just enjoy something, can you?” and Sherlock would blush. John wouldn’t tease him harshly like Irene. 

Irene and his friendship was entertaining. They’d bicker and throw verbal punches at each other, but it was all in good fun. They were often harsh and brass, but Sherlock could tell that underneath all that, they cared for each other (not that he would admit it freely). 

It was more normal for Sherlock, who had mostly known people to be harsh and unforgiving, even if the jesting was different in nature. 

With John it was different. He was more like Prof. Sherry, in that he was gentle and kind. But he wasn’t condescending. He didn’t act like Sherlock was some wounded animal who needed to be cared for. He poked and prodded at him, teased him, discussed things with him, laughed at him when he tripped over before helping him up and asking him if he was okay.

And never before had Sherlock felt like he couldn’t exist without another person. 

They also hung out alone more often. John came over to his house very frequently, and Sherlock even went over to John’s a couple of times, when his family was on “their _very best behavior_ ”. 

It was easy to fall into a rhythm that way. They navigated the school year smoothly, studying, hanging out, playing chess. Having (so much!) fun. 

It felt weird to think that more than half the year had passed to Sherlock, one day when the afternoon was melting into nighttime, when John and him were hanging out on his front yard. It was already dark and a few rogue clouds framed the starry sky. John sat on the grass, looking at Sherlock pensively as the lanky boy used a sextant to check out Thycho Brahe’s astronomic calculations. 

Sherlock was rambling, as per usual, while John looked on at him with an equal parts soft and bewildered look.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know that the Earth goes round the Sun.”

Sherlock paused briefly, turning towards John.

“Well, it doesn’t affect our lives. Why should I know it?”

John threw his head back and laughed.

“Just because! I don’t know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to staring at the stars through the instrument. He started rambling again, this time about Mars and how obvious its movement is. 

“I can’t believe I have such a weird best friend.”

Sherlock didn’t even flinch.

“Greg isn’t weird.”

John rolled his eyes, this time staring at Sherlock in disbelief. 

“God, Greg isn’t my best friend, you weirdo.”

Sherlock stared back at John. Then, he went back into his mind palace, scavenging for one of his first interactions with the group, when Greg ad John were always together, always going to the same places, walking together, talking. Greg had referred to John as his best friend a select few times, but none recent. 

“What?” He blurted out, confused.

“You can be such an idiot sometimes,” John said, not even looking meek. “You’re my best friend, Sherlock.”

…

He was John’s best friend? 

Sherlock didn’t notice he was crying until John stood up and walked over, worried. The tears made their way down his face fast and in bulk, and he felt as if his whole face were wet. 

“Sherlock, are you okay?” John grabbed at his shoulder.

There was a lump in his throat. There seemed to be no air available for breath. He tried clearing his throat.

“No… um, I mean yes. I just… I never expected to be anyone’s… best friend.”

He looked up into John’s eyes and the other boy’s expression was…broken. He looked incredibly sad and even a little angry. Sherlock smiled at John. He was so lucky.

John then grabbed his other shoulder and smashed their bodies into a hug. While Sherlock was one or two inches taller, John was wider, and so encompassed him completely. He had never felt so happy. 

“Now you are,” John breathed warmly against his neck.

Everything was perfect. 

Well, almost everything. He had almost been in a daze, high on John and his’ best friendship, high on John, and so he didn’t notice how sad Molly looked when they were together.

Until, that is, Irene hit him in the face with a book.

“Idiot! You’re making Molly sad. Go tell her you’re gay.”

Sherlock stood up from where he was sitting, alone in the quiet school library, and looked around. 

“How will that help?”

Irene looked at him with a frown.

“She’ll move on!”

Sherlock chuckled. 

“Onto you, you mean?”

Irene blushed and hit Sherlock again.

“Okay, stop it, I’ll talk to her.”

She smiled. “Really?”

Sherlock sighed.

“Yes, it’s time I tell the group that I’m gay.”

Her smile dropped.

“You’re going to tell everyone?”

He nodded, nervous, and her mouth moved to form a strict line.

“Okay. Me too.”

They smiled at each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! Doing my best here! I promise I'll update whenever I can! I think there are only a few more chapters to go before the story comes to an end. Thanks for sticking around! <3 Bee :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'll try to update every week! Comments and kudos are very much appreciated: tell me what you like, what you want, what you don't like... anything's good.  
> Thank you for reading! Bee :)


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